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Polling Place

One in the Oktopus presents you with a chance to pretend you are a true American (a non-felonious American that is).
Using democracy decide how cool we are at bottom of page (and by democracy we mean we will surely fix the results in our favor). A Megafonzie is the standard unit of measurement for factoring coolness. Thanks for your wasted participation and remember to buy Diebold stock!

An open letter to fans, wellwishers, the slandered characters, the obviously plagerized, and the people who just want me to quit writing already

(author artfully contemplating art)


It just dawned on me that you might be one of the only people who reads this and finds a certain character in any story to have a slight similarity to your own life. Please accept my apologies. Obviously all thoughts contained within are one-sided at best and completely fanciful at worst (complete fabrications). While there are various reasons for posting these little missives, I hope that you or anyone else can realize their literary counterpart in any story is most likely a composite sketch of my stuttering memories, my sometimes cruel and vicious "creative" license, and a misguided ode to your involvement in my life. I absolutely dispute the rather commonplace notion that the words I write are coming directly from my thoughts and thus are my true feelings. I will have a general idea of something that I put down and I let my fingers and mind take me to places that are not preconceived. Lately I have been attempting to better edit the work instead of subjecting readers to the utterly horrible "stream of consciousness" writing that has plagued me in the past. Although I can indeed see redundant themes (sex, swearing, lack of sex, self-doubt) throughout the pieces this is but a small sampling of what I am really working on right now. Most everyone, including myself, would be bored shitless about the work I am doing now. Just think grant letters + research methodology + fragmented novella + how-to book written in 1483 + 1917 WWI Eastern Front Trench Diaries = Rambling Incoherence. For better or worse you are getting my practice pieces while I navigate my way through better dialouge writing, paragraph shaping, storytelling and others literary things I suck at. I know that sort of trivializes things and is sort of shooting myself in the face but people seem to like the stories for the most part (at least to my face), my artistic collaborator gets the work he has been demanding for years in a format for which he can surgically remove the parts he wants to Frankenstein up for the art that we love to do, and I get some self-satisfaction for being a blogger. Because everyone wants to be a blogger, right? Bloggers are sexy and cool, huh? Bloggers are necessary and shouldn't be systematically exterminated. We are the bureaucrats of the future!


(author seductively seducing the camera lens and points beyond)


In short, I need your comments and viewings but all-in-all I don't give a fuck really if you are hurt because it may be you but it is not really you. Oh shit, I mean I care a lot...please read my stuff. Please, please...I desperately need to be fawned over. I take back everything. I should've done everything different. I will make it up to you all. I love you. I need you. I want you. (judging from the context only if you are a lithe, teenage, Nordic wunderfrau). Just kidding, it's only fiction!



(author high as fuck on PCP and rhino tranquilizers)

Colder For Having Been There, Part I of V

"Would you please put your cigarette out and let's go?"

"...sure, wait. Wait...it's my last one."

"Can't you get any more?"

"Yeah, at the duty-free shop. But it's so fucking cold out here. I would have to go back in to the warm and then walk
through the terminal and all the way back here. Thirty fucking minutes...that's fucking nuts.

"What about bummin' a couple for the road off those people?"

"Look at what they are smoking."

"so..."

"duMaurier, are you serious? They're Canadian, can't you tell? duMaurier cigarettes, flat box, bullshit flavor. For sure,
one of them will ask me something, anything. I don't want to talk to Canadians. I didn't fucking come over here to talk
to Canadians. I already know everything about Canadians. Curling, snow, Moosehead...what's to know."

"Asshole."

"OK...that's fair but I am not smoking Canadian cigarettes."

Out past the endless tarmac were jagged fields of lava rocks, signifying the geothermic history of this strange island. All morning the yawning passengers leaned their heads against the airbourne portholes and saw the terminally boring blue pool of the North Atlantic splash mindlessly between continents. Every now and then a Norwegian whaling vessel bobbed stupidly below. Although whales across the globe have been decimated to the point of alarm it seemed nearly impossible that these rusting fishing relics could ever be lucky enough to actually bag a plankton-eating behemoth. The oceans being too vast, too deep for comprehension. It was expected that the airplane would land somewhere near a city but there was nothing around except monotonous rows of manufactured US Army barracks. In some stroke of Cold War genius, a General so-and-so had negotiated an overlengthy lease for the rights to construct a airdrome on the tip of this frigid isle. This was greased by the addition of good old Yanqui dollars fattening the coffers of the local and national treasury. No doubt this rankled the feathers of the commoners and peasants who happened to have the misfortune of living on this strategic piece of mutually assured destruction but elected officials were given a sturdy mandate to do what they will. Dominating the northern end of this display of seemingly pointless human construction were twin terminals and their corresponding airplane hangars. A point of departure and arrival for cargo and travelers was their only similarity. The drab olive buildings preferred by the military complex of the Americans blended rather seamlessly into the surrounding lunarlike landscape. The utilitarian concrete pseudocity bustled with the unifrom mastrations of bored US airmen dutifully filling out their service to country in a decidedly unwarlike manner. In a stunning architectual act of defiance, a glass and metal artillary strike, the natives had erected a futuristic welcome mat to the ohhing and ahhing few who tread to this nowhere part of the globe. The blond citizens smiled and worked efficiently to promote the wonders of their country, all but ignoring their imperialistic neighbors secretly warmongering away the years. We had booked an extra three days here free courtesy of the airline. Most people politely said "thanks but no thanks" while they stopped here briefly on a United States to Europe intermission. Why we had taken them up on their generous offer I do not know. A little advance briefing of the history, flora and fauna, geology, and geography of this country revealed many hidden splendors to investigate but this was late March just south of the Arctic Circle, certainly no time to be playing fairy and elves in the countryside. An ominous warning was the darkened skies socking in the bay of the capital city. No aerial preview was to be had once we reached mainland. It was blindingly light here, though, at the airport. Three of us huddled outside the Jetsonesque automatic walkway and barely spoke.

"I am going to get more cigarettes while we are here. It's like a forty minute bus ride to the city and shit, duty-free, man."

"Get a carton, then."

Our female companion rolled her eyes and sighed audibly. She had already reached her boiling point of frustration during our lengthy stay in Amsterdam. The prospect of three more days with us was irritating enough but now she was dealing with the possible loss of our luggage and thus the rest of our money. Plus, she was having a extended hangover with her decision to cap off a truly superb world-traveler backpacker day by having sex with me, who characteristically was doing everything and anything wrong immediately after climax.

"Fuck your cigarettes and find us our fucking luggage."

"What the hell are we supposed to do about it? We asked, they are looking and now I am going to smoke until they answer."

"Christ, I am going to go talk to the Canadians and then I am going to the cafeteria. I am so sick of you two. Find out about our luggage."

She had begun to speak to anyone of any nationality that was not American. This was her obvious "fuck off" to us. It was working only in the fact that it would make me less likely to acknowledge the fact that we had sex and that I was acting like an immature jerk. An unfortunate side-effect of feeding me exactly the venomous poison that I wanted to eat. My male compatriot could care less. He was here to drink and smoke his way into believing that we were adventurous and daring. We were here to pay homage to Kerouac and Graham Greene and Paul Theroux and if anything the American on American coupling that happened was an aberration. A slight annoyance but overall meaningless act in the overall scheme of being unpredictable and dangerous worldly muckrakers. After all, any fucking worthy of mention would include phrasing such as the following;

the Indonesian girl
that Australian backpacker chick
ahh, that Dutch bartender at De Rokerij
Eastern European prostitute
those two Brazilians
and finally (at least for me) an angelic, Nordic-perfected, Icelandic goddess

The poor, pathetic office for lost luggage was buried deep in the bowels of the airport. Accordingly the cranky troll that controlled the fate of our money, our happiness was more in a mood of mocking our luck than granting us help. She directed us to the home office of the airling located in the city and confirmed that our bags were safely on the way to Minneapolis without us. Apparently they want you to stay a few days to explore their lovely country but would prefer if your clothes would kindly go home first. With the clothes on our back and little Kroners in our pocket we contemplated our next move. Precious last monies were spent on the duty-free carton of cigarettes and they came bounding back down the terminal hallway with the man. We all sat in the concourse waiting for the airline shuttle to take us into the city and to the unknown. Alliances were drawn, blame was assessed, anger sharpened, possibilties narrowed, and cigarettes were smoked. Then we were off, beelining through the barren lava fields.

A home, my home (with banshees and blizzards)

The banshees have returned to their rightful place, hanging in suspended animations, tethered with vapor shackles to all these new brick chimneys. This time I doubt if any of the kids noticed them at all. I long suspected that my beloved childhood ghosts would wither up and die a soundless death but instead these apparitions of longing and loss, these spectres of memories and warmth lithely danced in formation to my coddled delight. Perhaps this was only to greet an old friend but they brought the great Borealis and his fierce North winds with them. Up from the years and the dirt sprung a forgotten blizzard and a blanket of white bed down the frozen river valley. The deer looked fattened with corn and the old woods, though a little thin in numbers, was a sturdy and familiar sight. To the north the bluffs played hide-and-go seek behind the biting winds and swirling snows. I couldn't be more happy today.

Acids and Bases Mixed For Battle

If only it would stay foggy like this forever. Fuzzy light atoms pushed outward in an awkward fight against the gray droplets of water diffusing the color indistinguishable from comfort or terror.
But then she spoke in annoyed hushed tones.

-I get too tired after midday. And then I take it out on my friends.
-Yeah?
-Do you want to get some food?
-Not really, I'm not very hungry.
-Yes you are, you are just so broke that you don't want me to pay for anything anymore.
-umm, can't we just spend one day inside...one day not going this way or that way. I want to love how you rub your
feet against mine and pretend that we love Sundays together...that we both look forward to this day all week long. That
your interests somehow enrich mine and they tumble together and fuck...I mean make love...and slowly wind down
all your bullshit, your incessant flirting, your stupid insecurities about your beauty.
-You're so boring and self-obsessed.
-But all I ever do is talk about you. I can't remember the last time someone, you, asked me a question about anything
other than the mundane shit everybody talks about. I mean, I like talking about weather and all but I hate my fucking
job and you know it.
-So, you don't want to eat today?
-Remember when you said something about being 'tired after midday' and then you 'take it out on my friends'.
-Yeah, what of it.
-That's from that song...from Stars...umm, you know...Elevator something...I think.
-I hate when you do that.
-What?
-Pretend like you don't know everything about everything.
-What the fuck are you talking about?
-Oh, like in that pathetic brain of yours you aren't thinking...what a stupid bitch, she's trying to pass off lyrics
so she will sound cool. But you know and you think you are so fucking smart. Like it's really a sign of intelligence
to read stupid fucking Pitchfork everyday.
-I don't read it everyday.
-You want me to believe you don't, you want everyone to believe that. Like somehow this information that you deem
important, which isn't at all by the way, somehow just fell from the sky to your gifted stupid little brain. When has anyone
ever been impressed by anything you say?

On cue the rain started hammering the tin roofing. The last of the orange-brown leaves fled the bony fingers of the
Japanese Maple out front, the dying gasp of this miserable Autumn. This house has all the wrong lighting. After she made me get long-lasting energy bulbs the whole of the house now buzzed softly with all the ambiance of a flourescent garage. The growling Alberta Clipper sweeping in from the vast wastelands of Canada has a warmer feel to it than this crumbling mess of a forced homefront. Of course, she had predictably gotten these bulbs the day after seeing Al Gore's movie. This habit of living off the sage advice of the entertainment industry was beginning to be a festering Voodoo doll in this relationship, the chance to plunge daggers all too easy nowadays for me. I used to blame her for making it easy to pick on her peculiar suburbanite traits but really it was an ugly scab for picking while I dutifully drove rusty nails into the layers of my own skin, my own neurosis.

-Where are you going?
-Out.
-Out where, the pub?
-Just out.
-Fuck you. Have fucking fun. Say 'Hi' to my own friends for me.
-Whatever.

The first of the car doors creaked open. She soon would be cursing at me for the broken driver's side door handle. It had been three weeks now since the mismatched, salvage yard door handle had cracked off and made anyone driving solo crawl through the passenger side, no easy task in the cramped cockpit of this rusting Honda Accord. Our cars mirrored not only our economic prowess but also our finely crafted portraits of how we wanted the world to view us. She: perfectly detailed Dodge Stealth, always paid on time full coverage insurance, neat piles of shopping receipts in the ashtray, designer shades always put in the affluent and poignant extra, the flipdown sunglass case. Me: matching door dents that assured one needed actual strength to open a door, overflowing cigarette butts out of the pennycase/ashtray, bullethole-shaped rust holes that made it look like a 30's-era gangster riddled my car with his Tommy gun, glued together Alpine stereo hacked back to life after recent comical break-in. She only took my car today because of an early morning romp around the downtown bars in which she proudly cheered herself for finally ceasing to drive drunk at 3am.

Leftovers cluttered the countertops and were starting to give off their warm, damp signal of overstaying a welcome.

Surprisingly, I heard my car pulling back into the driveway. Cigarettes extinguished themselves in anticipation of an upcoming fight. Acids and bases mixed themselves in the jungle of my mouth, readying themselves for battle purposes. I wish I had put on her underwear. Two nights ago I had worn them to work on one of the rare occasions she happened to visit me. After pouring her friends excellently crafted drinks meant for impressing, I pulled her into the ridiculously opulent men's bathroom to force her hand down my black dress pants. She grinned madly and actually squealed a little sound I had never heard uttered out of her usually venomous mouth. For once, I had made a good decision. Although they were a little too tight even for my admittedly feminine build, the unfamiliar silky hugging made for a scandelous, exciting night. Also the daredevil temerity of the girlfriend's now risque boyfriend gave her heating surges of pride and lust that she could translate into conning her friends that I indeed was a catch. A singular stroke of bravado that would make her friends let up on the relentless 'why are you with him' talk for a evening. There was now a gigantic sinkhole in the Earth where she could bury her deflated, pathetic 'but you don't what it is like when we are together'. She breathed a slutty, awkward impression into my left ear that left me a little too excited to return to my task of short-pouring the expense account, non-tipping idiots from CNN and Fox News. They were probably wearing women's underwear, too.

I, watching her scramble out the passenger door, enjoyed the hardship of it all, the amusing stupidity of a gorgeous girl falling headfirst out of a collapsing shitpile of a ride. She wore no obvious expression of attack or hatred. In her right arm dangled a double-sacked bag of groceries. I could see the clear, happy bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka poking out of the bag and it made my stomach warm in appreciation. She was plotting and scheming her way across the driveway. In her left arm slumped a five pound bag of ice, already cubed for ease. As an act of chivalry or more accurately an act of attempting to procure myself half that bottle of Vodka, I triumphantly opened the door for her. While I was reaching for the bottle she slapped my hand away.

-You know what?
-What?
-I love you so much.
-What?
-I love you.
-I love you, too.
-I know you do.
-Can I have some of that Stoli?
-Later. Grab that bag of ice and follow me.

The timing was impeccable. The bedroom exploded into a million sparkling glass shards and reformed in a curious universe where she smiled at me with rare and radiant depth and our breathing amplified to a silver, dull drone of serenity. Fingertips hooked the elastic on either side of the trackpants she had claimed as her weekend attire and slowly pushed past her goosebumped, milky flesh revealing that she had neglected to wear underwear out in the bitterly cold November Sunday. Slowly, she braced herself against the wall with her forearms, her multi-colored hair tickling the tops of her glacially carved ass, and bent down to fill a 32-ounce cup with two handfuls of ice cubes. Her anticipation had now reached my nasal passages and was wreaking havoc with my ability to remember all the reasons that this will never work out in the end. It made me feel drunk, stupid. She purred and cleaved my parched lips with a melting icicle between her fingers while she increased her nipple size through the sheer will of a drop of temperature. I bent in to navigate the nape of her neck but she shoved me to the ground with a domineering show of her palm. Heatwaves worked from within her precious garden in order to guide the cooling tongue home to create the ecstasy differential. My guess is that there will be no fighting on this Sunday.

Interrupted Chattering & Other Such Misgivings From the Cold Desks

The following posts are all bluster and friction. These are and are not the words to the underdeveloped Red Star at the Redeemer Gates epic that One in the Oktopus are delicately crafting. This is a snapshot, a glimpse of nothing, a map into the ravines and catacombs of the One in the Oktopus process. Maps are lies and beautiful fragments of memory and imagination. By simply tracing your finger on a map you may dream worlds and people and happenstances that really do exist in alternate realities. This is but one stop on your lifelong atlas. I am glad you peeked. The names are arbitrary, the words fleeting but I am happy to pass them along and you may take them as your own if you wish.

A Cathedral of Rubble

This pathway up to the church was littered with broken masonry and dead leaves. In fact, the whole entirety of the cathedral has been reduced to little more than an unrecognizable pile of rubble. In the gray autumn we children would spend hours exploring the twisted metal girders and stunted pathways that led to nowhere. There was always some attempt made at pretending the whole endeavor was an elaborate spy mission. The secrets of the destruction and numerous hidden treasure caches were ours alone. We would go to our grave protecting the priceless information that we had deciphered. Elaborate rituals were devised to ensure loyalty was entact. When the rains came and made our playground a muddied dismal swamp, we would shift our archaeological energies to unearthing broken pottery and shattered porcelain.

Red Star at the Redeemer Gates

I. The Party Has A Funeral

rejoice brothers and sisters
for the workers of the world united
will propel mankind into a new era
with heads unbowed to the fresh winds of change

the sacrifices of the individual
will prop our shoulders and hold our heads high
fallen comrades and toiling mothers
can now stand steadfast as one

a great cry has lifted to the stars
the chorus of millions strong
ring with the patriotic fervor
of a teeming mass destined for the glory of all time

fear not in troubles and anguish little for those unworthy
for strength, honor and determinism
are the foundations of a country strong as molten steel
enter the red star at the redeemer gates

When our little traveling group left our home it was bitterly cold but the sky was a dark blue, a deeper blue than usual. The old Lada seemed more cramped with me, my little sister, my dad and our grandmother. Father assured us that it was only a matter of time before he was driving the same German automobiles as his bosses did. Unbelievable! Impossible! everyone exclaimed at once. Grandmother disgustedly spit on the floor of the car. This was unfathomable to believe that just over a decade after the German Wehrmacht had steamrolled its death brigades almost to the hemline of sacred Moscow that Russians would find anything German a symbol of success. No matter, this is what was done. Scenery and sky were now spitting and frothing as we alone piled down this newly paved superhighway. This seemed like an enormous amount of asphalt for just our car but just like in our hometown concrete was eating up every amount of empty space. This was the new Russia...proud, industrious and orderly. The town we just moved to was cleaved from the dense forests as though a monsterous ax were plunged from space with one mighty swoop. The hours were now uncountable as we straightlined through this dream of Russia I had never seen. Father had just told us that Mother had died in an accident at the factory where she worked and there would be a small memorial for her given to us by the beneficial heads of the State Factory. He reminded us over and over again that we were to be gracious and quiet today as this was a rarity for the leaders of the Factory to all be attending. There wasn't much need for warnings though because no one spoke much as the thick forests gradually gave way to sparse trees and endless rocky hills. The gray skies boiled over the craggy bluffs and lapped at the edges of the road. Everything now was completely different than when this day had started. Beauty had crumbled into hideousness, excited chatter became monotonous radio static and Mother was no longer alive.

My sister and I could never figure out why Mother was gone for extended periods of time but just like everything else in Russia all was done for the good of the commoners like us. I began to suspect we were not that common at all when Father told us we were all moving to this beautiful new city along the River Ob in the forests of southern Siberia. We grew up in the same town as Father and he in the same town as his parents. Nobody moved in Russia until now. Now it seemed that everybody was moving to towns nobody ever was born in and our townsfolk had all the same meaningless pasts and histories. Everything was the future. So forgotten would be everything but nobody seemed to mind. Everyone had wonderful new jobs and houses and towns. But we did not have everything, we forgot to bring our Mother. Father plainly explained that Mother would not be coming with us for the time being as she was sent to work in this secretive new factory town way off in the West.

Arctic Circle Home, my prison

Sixteen, Eleven, Three, Three, Three, Nine, Thirteen
Sixteen, Eleven, Three, Three, Three, Nine, Thirteen

there are a billion twinkling lights on this instrument panel
one would be cold if one could feel such things as temperature
forgotten era army cot bed and a sense of impending dread
out in spirals go my gift to the world
a repeated set of numerals meant for someone I will never meet

there are a million tiny icy crystals forming in my eyes
the windows are frosted over now, shut in completely
does this light launch random destruction
does this light topple regimes
does this light allow me to breathe fresh air again
does it matter that I feel an anaconda grip around my neck

a hundred pieces of stale bread for the mouse underneath the table
will anyone really care that I have some unrealized ambitions
some need to fall in love again with a woman who nurtures my feeble mind
a passable affection for humanity and its foibles is quickly fading
at this latitude it is hard to register concern
as long as those numbers are ticking off the counter

Sixteen, Eleven, Three, Three, Three, Nine, Thirteen
Sixteen, Eleven, Three, Three, Three, Nine, Thirteen

there are a hundred reasons to go outside today
I cannot find my suit and the flowers have all died
sometimes I go tired of drinking water with an auger
but my replacement can only be kilometers away
those are the revisions to the stories told over and over again
madness is clarity and distorted are the routines

one dozen soup canisters are in the pantry
the antennae wants to flop noisily against the steel girders
it has broken and fixed itself into a perpetual state of life
I want to wonder where my radio waves travel
across warm expanses of sand and mirages and yellow I hope
but they will probably react just as poorly as I do to extremes

there is only one way out of this neverending dream
shut the lights off and let the counting mercifully cease
if only I had the strength to push the gunmetal blast door open
everything would slowly grind to an ending
what would happen beyond those doors will never be known
and that is all I have to give to you

Priceless to me!

This is a historic artifact from the long gone days of Fargo lore. Featured above as you can probably see is a 25-year-old Freddy getting mostly underage people from the totally kickass Fargo band Slowpoke wasted at the world famous Duffy's saloon in Fargo, ND (note the steely drunken gaze of Jesse-peering into camera. We were seated in the exclusive ROCKSTAR booth located at the back of Duffy's, once home to true literary giants such as Chuck Klosterman. However, for a three-year period in the late nineties this booth was the singular drinking spot of the cultural elite of Fargo (most ably headed by our Huezine staff and our orbiting entourage). This landmark photo was taken for a mostly botched interview featured in the infamous Huezine, a hyper-popular (amongst ourselves) zine created by Grandmaster Hue, the never-aged godfather of all things Fargo. Ironically every single person pictured above now resides in the rainy confines of Oregon. Damn, I could do anything back then...or at least handle my booze like a proper drunken hipster.

OktopusRadio

We cordially invite you to listen to the worldwide premier of our podcast, OktopusRadio. The link is as follows:

http://oktopusradio.podcastpeople.com/

We will try to do a whole bunch of fun shit with it. We encourage anyone who is paying attention to get ahold of us at www.myspace.com/oneoktopus or freddy@redbananaproductions.com for podcast ideas, wanting us to play their music, or much more importantly participating in one of our podcasts.

Tune in and we hope you enjoy!

The Golden Pose

HelloHeyHi,

Oktopus and Eat Life members (ya know, us) are featured in a short movie by our friend Lance. Mo' does a stupendous turn (as always) in the lead role and Freddy and Vangie manage not to fuck things up. The film was shot in Cottage Grove, OR and some delicious scenes in my (Freddy) bedroom. OK, not real delicious but my favorite Friar candle makes an stunning cameo.

Link to the movie is as follows so cut and paste it to your address bar:

http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=21655776

We are slowly working on other projects that most assuredly feature our own special brand of egomanaical worldview.

Hope you enjoy!

An overview of the song---Autumns are for Orchards and Dying

Late afternoon creates the wonderfully prismatic lightscape in this old house's living room. It was still warm enough to leave the heavy oak doors open to the swooning, almost sleeping autumn breezes. The orchards on the side of the western hill were exploding in apples and the children are keeping themselves busy in fantasy play. I could watch you gently rocking in your chair for hours. The sun fragments into a million tiny mirrors and ever so slowly travels down your body. You look so incredibly comfortable. A light fleece throw barely covers your bare legs and soft, magical feet. I am doing nothing but spending this fleeting inifinitum of time alternating daydreams with you in treasured silence. We speak no words but I curl up occasionally on the floor to caress the receding sun. You look so happy. You must know then--but how can you? Are you blissfully accepting our fate? Why aren't you gathering the children for a cinematic, tearful goodbye? God, I love every inch of you. This last daydream concerned the third night we (or more accurately, you) decided to show some bravado and spend a stolen weekend staring at similarily autumn day in the face. There is no audible language except the enveloping serenity and warmth of a familiar yet fearful mutual love. At least I remember no specific words but can recall every fingertip trace of your skin. Let's go outside and run with the children...why don't we just grab four bottles of wine and drink this night into forever...why don't... You sweetly shake your head a pointed 'no'. Then what? Do you realize this will be the last night on Earth we ever spend? She slowly curls her smile into an acknowledgement. At that precise moment the faintest rumbling comes tumbling up the valley to the north and we realize that this unstoppable countdown has begun.

Some supposedly great things that I have done or will never do

Hi! Is anyone still out there? This missive is inspired by various lists from credit card companies telling what I should do before I die (in no particular order).

-win Wednesday's powerball-this will lead to an unprecedented streak of philanthropy never seen since the days of Carnegie, complete with an autobiographical manifesto on ways in which everyone sucks (ala Wealth of Nations)>>>

-drive down or up the Pacific Coast Highway in a toxin-spewing minivan>>>

-write a joke that appeared on Venture Bros. or the new Futurama>>>

-have a joke turned down by South Park because I didn't say poop or semen or Jihad enough>>>

-have sex with an extremely attractive 22-year-old at a rest area off of I-94 in Minnesota>>>

-have a shot with one-half of the Indigo Girls while getting verbally abused by the other>>>

-running over a ridge on a steamy summer night into the largest collection of fireflies I have ever seen or dreamed about. Oh yeah, also being on a perfect amount of Psylocibin mushrooms with a soon-to-be married friend. I should have died right there, thus being the pinnacle of my life>>>

-throw out the opening pitch at the new outdoor Minnesota Twins stadium in 2010. Fuck that, as long as I am dreaming I might as well be the starting pitcher>>>

-hop up on stage and surprisingly pull off two hours of noise and video with my favorite person on Earth to create "art" with and funniest man ever...yeah, that is you Mo' (when are you going to ditch the family and travel the carnival circut with me...OK, you can come to Vangie, after all you are the brains behind this all)>>>

-sold minor amounts of weed to washed up Independant League baseball players>>>

-saw Pinback fake breakup on stage because they didn't want to play for us Inferiors any longer>>>

-made fun of Hippies and Trustafarians>>>

-got an 'A' in a creative writing class entirely consisting of women. After the barrage of poetry about horses, their children, and love I wrote volumes of poems and stories about saccharin semen, beared hoboes, volcanic moons of Jupiter, vampires with braces, underwater gas vents...and of course love. The best part is when my instructor told me I should look into the "poetry" of Kirk Cobain (OK) and Jim Morrison (sucks). She thought I was on drugs! Disclaimer---I enjoy many, many fine women writers, even some who speak of nothing but love. In this case, however, the instructor was working on her own (really lame) book and all the girls were seemingly farm girls with weird attachments to domesticated food animals.>>>

-had sex with a beautiful girl in Amsterdam but for some reason didn't continue having sex with her all over mainland Europe and Iceland. My fault...extremely my fault>>>

-had threesome with girl from rest area story and girl mentioned just above. Oh wait, that wasn't me, that was some douchebag name JJ and wait wasn't that my girlfriend at the time, too. Hope it was fun bastards. Yeah, that was ten years ago and I am not over it yet. At least I still fantasize about it while masturbating>>>

-been to Disneyland and DisneyWorld. Hold on, that is really lame>>>

-decided to be an infrequent blogger. Again, really lame>>>

OK there is an abbreviated list of cool shit I have or have not done. I think I will expand on this later and explain (or at least try to while I cry) why this all happened well before I turned thirty and nothing has happened since. Shalom!

e. charles fridell

Venture Bros. Season 2 DVD...out now!!

The above picture was reprinted with absolutely no permission from the creators of The Venture Bros. (Jackson Publick/Doc Hammer). When they bring their high-powered Manhatten suits down to sue the crap outta One and the Oktopus industries and our far-flung web of related corporations we will have to relocate to our Belgrade headquarters or our brand spanking new facility in sunny, boisterous Mogadishu, Somalia.

Without further ado...The greatest cartoon of the 21st century has geared up its merchandising prowess to drop Season 2 on our laps. If you haven't seen Venture Bros. Season One, it is highly recommended by our crack staff to watch the first season prior to the second season (yes, in that way we assure that the creators will stay comfy in their large mansions by buying both DVDs).

Cheers and here's to 33 year olds still watching cartoons!

eatlife media collective has birthed itself some One and the Oktopus footage

eatlife media collective is here and we have launched with our mini-satellite containing two little movies from yours truly One and the Oktopus. The movies can be found at our MySpace account (www.myspace.com/oneoktopus). One of the shorts was scored solely by One and the Oktopus and the other one was ably scored by One and the Oktopus friends and eatlife media collective members Aldo and Gabe. One and the Oktopus must truly thank the one and only Vangie for editing, dictating and basically wrangling our Jello-based insanity into one somewhat cohesive corral. After all there really is no One and the Oktopus without Vangie.

eatlife media collective is coming
eatlife media collective is scientific
eatlife media collective is scrumptous
eatlife media collective is...

***check out our shorts please...there will be more to come***

www.myspace.com/oneoktopus

Censored!

I think blogspot took down my last blog...

I included a long-running "joke" about how the Lifetime Channel always plays movies that prey upon the fears of women. They have a multitude of movies involving baby abductions or sexual assaults and they usually allude the pretense of the show directly in the title. In it I used another inside "joke" involving a not funny crime against women. An idiot editor at Central Connecticut University ran a horrible satire of rape recently and was rightfully condemned. Although I often am frustrated with the over PC-ness of our culture, I in no way wish to make light of heinous crimes against women. My apologies to all. However, it is always funny to poke shit about the Lifetime Channel. It is a ridiculous network with terrible shows.

Hello long time, it's been too...

Just a couple thoughts while I wade back into the kiddie pool...

---I just devoured The Wire on DVD (all three seasons). Anyone who doesn't like this show cares nothing for excellent dramatic TV writing, The War on Drugs, institutional bureaucratic hell, inner-city trials and tribulations, shows that refuse to dumb it down or just plain old good characters and plot arcs.

---My friend told me that Stephen Hawking cheated on his wife. Are you picturing it yet?

---Mo' and I (One in the Oktopus) are slowly working on our magnum opus album.

---There is a good chance that we will not release this album under the One in the Oktopus moniker.

---We are in the preliminary works for a comprehensive media collective website. Stay tuned.

---Does anyone still read this blog...comment me.

---Mo' and Vangie have been writing the movie short, Gary, Son of Thor. I am slated to play the part of Gary. I am much looking forward to acting again. Hopefully, I have improved my acting chops.

---I have written a Huezine/Onion newsletter and hope to drop it onto the interweb shortly.

---I still don't have a meaningful job, I am lame.

---I have written two scripts for the Lifetime Network. They both star Meredith Baxter Birney. The first is called "Who's Raping Me Now?" and the other is entitled "I Sold My Baby to Migrant Workers for Twelve Dollars". Look for them shortly but knowing Lifetime they will be replayed ad nauseum.

That is all for now!