Sgt. Grumbles

Dinosaur Meteors

There's something starkly beautiful to me about the last panel.

Also, an actual post, look for it soon!

Take a Look, It's in a Book

No One Is Thirsty

Lord Gloom

.tI er'ouY, gaT

Here we go:

4 Jobs I've had in the past:

* Christian Bookstore salesclerk
* North Kansas City School District After School Program Associate
* Youth Pastor
* Lawn Mower Salesman

4 Movies I could always watch:
* The Wedding Singer
* Moulin Rouge
* Braveheart
* Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

4 Places I've lived:

* Kansas City, MO
* Springfield, MO
* Lee's Summit, MO
* Salem, IL

4 TV shows I love:

* Attack of the Show
* Arrested Development
* Jericho
* Mystery Science Theater 3000

4 Foods I love:

* Anything Mexican (except enchiladas)
* Anything Italian
* Thai food (Nam Sod, Panang chicken... yum)
* Noodles

4 Websites I frequent:
Most of Meg's list plus:
* imdb.com
* Penny-Arcade.com
* Youtube.com
* Joystiq.com

4 Places I'd rather be:

* Tokyo
* The Grecian Isles
* New York
* Chicago

I'm Tagging:

* Anyone that sees this and hasn't done it yet (honestly, I have no idea who that may be)

I Really AM Crazy

I have a funny nose.

No, it doesn't tell jokes ("A priest, a rabbi, and a nose walk into a bar..."). And yes it is a bit upturned and fruit bat-ish (this I've been told by small children) but that's not it either. It has a thing about smells.

I can usually remember how a person smells just as well as what they look like. Good smells are very pleasant to me and bad smells send me reeling. I can barely think when I smell a really nice perfume. When I cleaned out the forgotten hamburger out of the refrigerator, I could barely function. Needless to say, I am very affected by my sense of smell. There's one kinda weird thing, though.

I smell things that aren't there.

For years, whenever I've pushed on my nose, I smell something. Not a "you're smelling your finger" something. It's not anything I've smelled anywhere else. It's a completely other smell. A phantom smell. Sometimes when people lose their arm or leg, they can still feel the arm. They still sense their phantom limb. For some reason, I sense some mystical energy that has long ago been stripped from my being. Or maybe I just have sensitive olfactories that don't like being stimulated.

I had a friend whose house I used to spend the night at every once in a while. When I'd come home, everything would have the same smell. This mystery smell smelled kinda like pickles, but more bitter. It'd be on my clothes and everything that I took there. But when I let someone else smell my jacket (or something else I had on me) nobody could smell anything. Nobody.

Whenever I came home to visit from college I would freak out. Freak out. Every time. You see, after a while of being there., I'd always have the strange smell on my hands. It was a kinda brackish, crisp smell. I started investigating and realized that it only happened when I was at my mom's house. If you saw me, you probably would have been very concerned about me because I started sniffing everything to try to figure out what I touched that was causing the smell. The TV remote, my doorknob, the sink handle, the chairs, the table, everything. After a while I was completely out of hope. I had no idea what was causing this new, strange smell. Finally, my mom asks if I had tried the ice. Seriously? The ice? No, I hadn't tried the ice. But since I had tried everything else, I opened the freezer.

It was the ice.

But my mom couldn't smell it. Not on the ice, not on my hands, and not even on her hands. Nothing. Everybody that came over I gave them the ice test, and one by one they failed. No one else could smell it. I was a little concerned and my mom got scared and said "You're moving with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Air." I whistled for a cab and when it came near, the license plate said "FRESH" and had a dice in the mirror. If anything I could say that this cab was rare but I thought "Naw forget it, yo home to Bel-Air." I pulled up to a house about seven or eight and I yelled to the cabby "Yo, home smell you later!" I looked at my kingdom, I was finally there to sit on my throne as the prince of Bel-Air.

Ow. My Head.

Have you ever stared at a light through a fan?
The flashing brights and pulsing darks.
Swinging in a never ending orbit.
That's what I see now.
Only there's no fan.
And there's no light.

Last year I started having migraines. The funny thing about that is, for the most part, I've never really had a headache before. Not really. So somehow I'm opened up to a whole new world.

The world of Bright, Throbbing Pain.

I had it off and on over the summer. Maybe I could blame my lackluster lawnmower sales on a long string of migraines. Maybe I can't. No, not really, I really wasn't a good salesman. I did what I could to take care of them, and when fall comes. . .

No migraines.

Fast forward almost a year. Actually, fast forward to 20 minutes ago. I'm talking (typing, whatever) to a friend when I notice that I can't really read the words well. Have you ever tried to read after staring in a bright light? It's the same kind of thing. Only problem with that is I didn't stare at a light. I didn't look out the window or anything. As the bright patch grows, I start to think to myself:

"Crap."

If you, oh reader, are not aware, one of the common beginning levels of a migraine is what's called an "aura", which is a flashing or glowing light sensation in the eyes. Does this sound familiar? Oh yeah, light through a fan.

Meg (both the person I was talking to and one half of my readership [hi Meg]) suggested that they may be allergy related since they apparently are confined to a general "summery time" schedule. It's probably true. I already have a normal allergy. In August, my eyes start to water and itch and I sneeze constantly.

This made for great first impressions at the beginning of every school year.

Perhaps I am well on my way to becoming one of those guys that are allergic to EVERYTHING. In due time, I will be allergic to bees, pollen, dogs, cats, grass, dirt, smoke, lemurs, Ninja Turtle bubble bath, regular bubble bath, vampires, TVs, the weather, girls, hockey pucks, and doorknobs.

As my head starts to pound, I have only this to say:

Here we go again.

Just a Quick Note (that was a musical pun, in case you missed it)

Okay.

I love music.

Always have.

Probably always will.

Although my tastes have changed and/or evolved (which would be an moderately interesting post in and of itself) I have had a few "favorite songs."

My first ever was "You Can Call Me Al" by Paul Simon.

I've done a lot of thinking and soul searching and I decided long ago that my favorite song of all time is "I Melt With You" by Modern English.

I now present it to you, oh reader.

Moving forward using all my breath
Making love to you was never second best
I saw the world crashing all around your face
Never really knowing it was always mesh and lace

I'll stop the world and melt with you
You've seen the difference and it's getting better all the time
There's nothing you and I won't do
I'll stop the world and melt with you

(You should know better)
Dream of better lives the kind which never hates
(You should see why)
Trapped in the state of imaginary grace
(You should know better)
I made a pilgrimage to save this humans race
(You should see why)
Never comprehending the race has long gone bye

(Let's stop the world) I'll stop the world and melt with you
(Let's stop the world) You've seen the difference and it's getting better all
the time
(Let's stop the world) There's nothing you and I won't do
(Let's stop the world) I'll stop the world and melt with you

The future's open wide

**The future's open wide

(Let's stop the world) I'll stop the world and melt with you
(Let's stop the world) I've seen some changes but it's getting better all the
time
(Let's stop the world) There's nothing you and I won't do
(Let's stop the world) I'll stop the world and melt with you

The future's open wide

hmmm hmmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm hmmm
hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm

I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
You've seen the difference and it's getting better all the time (Let's stop the
world)
There's nothing you and I won't do (Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)

I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)

I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)
I'll stop the world and melt with you (Let's stop the world)

And Now... A Post Just for Meg with Returning Guest: Mathieu Chedid

Presenting the most absurb music video/song.

Probably considered disco more than, rap, it has a very rappy feel.

And it's the closest I could come to annoying you/finding French rap.

Happiness is Fluorescent Clothes and Fanny-Packs

I grew up watching Nickelodeon.

Like many other kids my age, I spent as much time watching a spasmodic offering of bright colors and yelling cartoon faces as I did, say, sleeping. I guess there was other things on other channels that I might have enjoyed watching. But Nickelodeon held a sickeningly tight grip on me. For nearly 10 years (ending vaguely mid 90's) I prayed many seemingly drug-induced hours to the Day-Glo gods.

Nearly every Nickelodeon program ended with a blurb stating that said program was recorded at their Mount Olympus:

Nickelodeon Studios.

A giant geyser of green water (slime, apparently) bubbled happily high above roaming droves of ecstatic children. The smiles on their faces were well warranted.

They had reached Mecca.

I have a friend who's family goes to Disney World (Land? The one in Florida, anyway) every year. Maybe I'm a poor abused child, but I never went to Disney world. The truth is, I never wanted to. Why go to Disney World when Nickelodeon studies is so close? The prospect of attending a taping of What Would You Do? and maybe even meeting Marc Summers held so much more appeal than having your picture taken with some dweeb in a Donald Duck costume.

Recently, I came across some news that killed my spirit.

Nickelodeon Studios is shut down. From the Wiki:

"The studio tour closed in 2001 after staffing cuts were made. The Game Lab portion of the tour would continue to run until Nickelodeon Studios closed in 2005.

The facility closed on April 30, 2005, after Nickelodeon had gradually moved its production facilities to Nickelodeon Animation Studios in Burbank, California, and New York. The final program taped at Nickelodeon Studios was Nickelodeon SPLAT! on August 17, 2004.

The Slime Geyser in front of Soundstage 18 was removed in May 2005.

The trademark "Nickelodeon" sign above the facility was removed in January 2006.

A time capsule buried by the network in 1992 in front of Sound stage 18 was removed in August 2006 and was replaced with concrete. The time capsule contained items deemed important to the children of 1992 as voted upon by Nickelodeon viewers, including a new Nintendo Game Boy, an issue of Nickelodeon Magazine and various other toys. The time capsule was scheduled to be opened on April 30, 2042, fifty years after its burial."

I remember when they buried the time capsule. I think maybe my whole generation sighed collectively, though subconsciously, when it was desecrated. The things that were important to us aren't that important, I guess.

Then again, Nickelodeon today isn't the Nickelodeon of my youth. Just watch the drivel they show now.

Maybe it's for the best that the golden age of children's programming was ushered quickly into Eternity instead of letting it die a slow, horrible death. Images of creepy abandoned amusement parks flash in my mind.

No, I'm glad that they didn't let that happen.

Je suis si culturel j'écoute la musique française de roche (quoique je ne comprends pas un mot de lui).

I have something to say.

I, Aaron Thomas Bratcher, listen to French rock music.

Okay. I've admitted it. Eleven steps to go.

A couple of years ago I rented a movie called "The Triplets of Belleville" which is a French animated movie. You'd never really know it was French (except that it was set in France and revolved around the Tour de France, but other than that, you know) because there is no dialogue.

Kinda strange and artsy-fartsy, but I really like. It works really well. It's a beautifully animated movie and despite a complete lack of speaking, it wraps its dirty French animated hands around your heart.

There's a song in it named "Belleville Rendezvous" that is sung by the three old ladies in the movie but is sung by another guy on the soundtrack (kinda like was sung by the people in the Lion King, but it was really sung by Elton John). This guy who sings the song is named Matthieu Chedid.

But his stage name is ~M~.

To be honest, he looks like a Flock of Seagulls reject.

But I really like his music.

I don't understand a word though.

I tried punching the lyrics into an online translator, but the result was still a word salad of French and English words.

The only French I took in school was in 6th grade. It was the Modern Language quarter, and the quarter (which was 1/4 of the year) was split up into three parts between Spanish, French and German.

So, doing the math, I only took 1/3 of 1/4 of a year's worth of French.

6th grade French, even.


So I now present to you:

~M~

Qui de nous deux



Je dis aime

Taking Care of Business

When I was a kid, I kinda had this thing.

I couldn't use any other restroom except my own bathroom at home.

Sure, I could urinate anywhere (like any other guy) but, uh, taking care of business, I couldn't do it anywhere else.

This was intensified when I started high school and discovered that the stalls in the boy's restroom had no doors.

No Doors.

Who does that?

Does this prevent smoking in the bathroom? Can't you tell if someone is smoking in a stall with or without a door before you even walk into the bathroom?

When my stomach starting rumbling and it was only first hour I knew it was going to be a long day.

And this was the life I lead for a long time.

Until I started traveling overseas.

The food in Romania was strange. None of it tasted good. None of it really tasted bad. It was just food. They told us not to drink the water so we had giant water bottle mountains we went through. Apparently there's two kinds of bottled water in Romania: normal, regular, the-kind-of-water-I-drink-on-a-regular-basis-type water and something else. We got a new shipment of this other water and everyone tried it and spit it out. I picked up a bottle of it and the only English I could make out on it was "still water" which is kinda how it tasted: brewed in a still. Very, very watery moonshine, maybe. It had that brackish Powerade kick without all of the good flavor or coloring. My friend Josh and I took turns taking shots of it.

We procured two cans of Mountain Dew (Mind you, all we've had for a week was room-temperature to warm water) and risked our very lives by pouring them over two glasses full of dirty Romanian ice. It was the best thing I've ever tasted.

I'm surprised I don't have some strange Romanian stomach worm.

I guess I still might and he's been living happily for many years.

One afternoon spend out on the town (err, rather, the village, I guess) found me with stomach pains. I have to find a restroom, and fast. Our interpreter pointed me to a small building at the side of the road. I went in and experienced two firsts in my life.

One: my first pay toilet.

Using the toilet was 50 Lei which was the equivalent of only a few cents but I still took a second to realize what she was talking about.

I have to pay? To use the toilet?

Toilet paper was an extra charge. But I didn't need to buy any.

I wanted to check the toilets out to see if I'd be able to use them. If they were as dirty as just about everything else in the country, I'd have to reevaluate just how bad I had to go. When I opened the door, it was what I feared. Worse even.

The "toilet" was a hole in the ground. Thankfully, there were two ridged areas on each side for my poor little feet to plant for careful aiming.

No thanks.

I waved to the old lady at the door and tried not to listen to my stomach as it protested my decision.

Okay, so I didn't use that one.

But let me tell you this: the trashcans next to the toilets in Mexico are not for your boogey-filled Kleenex.

Apparently they have really bad plumbing in Mexico. So bad, even, that the presence of toilet paper clogs up the pipes.

Yeah, I think you're following me.

The trashcan is for used toilet paper. Take this, add the sweltering Mexican sun and heat and you've got the recipe for a pungent trip to el bano.

Oh, and rarely is there both a lid on the toilet bowl AND the tank. (This is not the Cancun or Aruba Mexico [I think. I've never been to those, but I assume resort cities aren't like this] but rather the Mexico where the houses are made from cinder blocks and the roads have curbs but no pavement.)

When I came home, I looked at the bathroom in some random restaurant or store, one that I would have avoided beforehand, and I saw a sparkling clean facility that I had no problem whatsoever using.

Ah, perspective.