I'll come up with something in a minute.

Henry Ford Museum: Bits & Bikes



February 28, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | | Leave a comment

Valentines for Guys

I just had an idea. Valentines for Guys!

It’s even waaaay too late for Valentine’s day, so it’s perfect.

Check the test texts I’ve come up with.

Cover: Valentine, I know it’s March 7th
Inside: But aren’t you glad I remembered at all? Cut me some slack here.

Cover: Darling, you know I love you.
Inside: But lay off until the game is over.

Cover: When I say I’d sleep with your sister…
Inside: That’s just me expressing brand loyalty.

Cover: Valentine, this year all I want is to hear you whisper those three little words…
Inside: “Let’s try anal.”

What’d you think sirs?

February 28, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Bacon (A Poem)

Bacon is yummy, I know.
Cookies are yummy, I know
Bacon cookies are probably yummy, I suspect.
Do you know what shortening is?
It’s a vegetable oil substitute meant for baking and frying.
Do you know what it’s supposed to be substituting and is thus aping?
Do you know what lard is?
Putting pig fat into baked goods is an OLD FUCKING IDEA!
You have not innovated!
If anything, you’ve made a colossal step backward because you’ve also put vegetable shorting in your fucking bacon cookie when you could have used LARD!
This whole idea that you people somehow discovered bacon has to end and it MUST END NOW!
Not only is cooking with bacon an old fucking idea, your grandparents did it better.
Does anyone remember their grandmother keeping bacon fat in a can or anything so she could use it later?
Old idea.
Not new.
She didn’t waste the bacon grease.
She used it later.
Stop saying shit like “Bacon is awesome” and expecting someone to say “Yeah I know” like the two of you have discovered some secret culinary delight that no one has ever thought of before.
Bacon is not a fucking indie band!
Everyone knows about bacon*!
Bacon ≠ Modest Mouse!
Or I’ll rend your fat and use you in a pie.
After I harvest your organs of course.
Can’t do this on no budget.
There’s a depression starting.
Got to get PAID!
Ya know?
Don’t cross me.
There’s still a few rich bankers in the world.
And some of them want your kidneys.

*Except for the Muslims and the Jews, but fuck them if they don’t know good food when they see it. I’m tired of their bullshit anyway. Sick of Hindus too. Just eat the fucking cow, that’s what they’re there for! Between those three groups I can’t get a bacon cheese burger in some places and that just shouldn’t happen. People who let God tell them what’s food deserve not eat well.

February 27, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | | Leave a comment

Henry Ford Museum: Planes








This was a racing plane, an early attempt at areodynamics

Pitcairn Autogyro? OOOOooooOOO Is that what we think it is?

OMG! It is!!!! It’s the Detroit News AUTOGYRO!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It’s just so delightful!

Last shot is the the opener, but full size.

February 27, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | | Leave a comment


You know something?

I’m starting to think that Neil Patrick Harris guy might be a homosexual or something. Not sure how I got that idea, but I just can’t shake it.

February 26, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Oh for the love of cheese corn!

You know, it’s the internet right?

You can say almost any thing you want in your blog. YES! This is a fact. There are certain realms that some blog companies will suspend you over, but they tend to be because the things you’re doing/saying are against the law. You may not like the fact that trading music without the copyright holder’s permission is illegal, but that don’t make it not so. Same with anything sexual involving anyone under 18.

If you live in America, or post on the right parts of the internet, you can pretty much say whatever the hell you like. Let me show you something…

Ronald Regan sucks cocks in hell while Dashiell Hammett gives him a never ending hand job!

See? I can say that. No one can stop me from saying that. Someone may ask why I’d want to, but they can’t actually force me to retract the statement that the 40th President of the USA likes to make tube steak into a mouth organ in a ring of Dante’s fun house while a lefty drunk detective writer keeps his end up. It’s understandable that they might ask why I’d want to say that. However, no one can stop me from posting it. If I weren’t using such a bizarre and extreme example I could probably expect to get some complaints about what I said. I may still. Some right wing nit wit who thinks tax cuts are the answer to everything from fixing our economy to curing the common cold and that all minorities are born criminals might bristle under the idea of their favorite icon being talked about, but there isn’t much they can do about it. Likewise, some lefty, semi-commie detective story lover who wants to force churches to perform gay marriages in cloud of state subsidized pot and thinks letting children starve to death on the street is somehow wrong might complain about one of the better writers of that genre giving a man who helped persecute him a peter pull.

Both groups would have a valid complaint about that statement. Unless I removed the comment feature from this post, both groups could call and complain. And I could then explain to both groups that whambulances are provided to my left and to my right so they don’t have to go in a direction unfamiliar to them and they can avoid riding with each other on their way to the Lil’ Bitches Daycare Center.

The point is though, that neither of them can stop me from saying it. I could put that sentence on a t-shirt and sell them at Café Press if I wanted. Again, you might ask why I would do that, but I doubt you could stop me. There might be some issues with Café Press’s TOS, but let’s pretend there aren’t for the moment. So long as I’m not violating their terms of service, Café Press will let me sell shirts with that ridiculous slogan on them.

I can say whatever I want on my little section of the internet, and I often do.

However, if someone decides they don’t like me because I insulted ol’ Dash, then they can decry me in the comments section. If someone gets offended because I said bad thing about Regan, they can post a diatribe about it on their own part of the internet. If I say dumb shit, people are entitled to call me on it. They should call me on it. It’s a foolish thing to say! Everyone knows that Dashiell Hammett can’t be in hell giving Ronald Regan a hand job while he sucks every dick that comes his way, because hell doesn’t exist. That’s just Ronnie and Dash’s version of heaven and we shouldn’t judge them.

The point I’m ever so slowly getting to is that if people do call me on this dumb shit, they aren’t violating my rights. No matter where or how they complain, they aren’t doing anything to oppress me. In fact, if I demanded someone stop them from complaining about me, or if I deleted their comments, I would be oppressing them in my own small way.

Freedom to speak does not equate freedom from the consequences of that speech. Having to face the ire of people who don’t like what you say is not a violation of your right to speak. If you’re going to say dumb things, people are going to call you on it. If you say objectionable things, then people will object. None of that prevents you from saying it though, watch…

Ronald Regan sucks cocks in hell while Dashiell Hammett gives him a never ending hand job!

See? I said it again! And if someone tells me they’ll buy it, I may go to Café Press and make it into a t-shirt. Been thinking about making a Café Press store anyway. The world totally needs a mug that says “SHWANEKEE!” and a thong with Fancy’s face on it. Totally!

February 26, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Wgar a relief

Sooo, I woke up!

So… Ronald Regan DIDN’T come back to life to form a Jimmy Hendrix cover band with Marlin Perkins.

Good, good.

I know telling people your dreams is stupid and annoying, but ole Ronnie singing “American Woman” seemed so… REAL!

February 26, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Wonderland (Part Nine)


A Jack Collier Mystery

By Brett N. Lashuay

Look here for last week’s entry!


Part Nine: Putting Together Pieces


            “He didn’t do anything,” I said. “Someone is trying to make him the fall guy for some nasty business they pulled and I don’t want to let them.”


            “That’s what you’d like?” she asked, putting her hands on her magnificent hips that no suit would ever hide.


            “Believe me, that’s not how I’d like to spend my one favor from you,” I told her. “The sort of favor I would like from you involves the sort of thing that I’m not even sure I’ve got the stamina for at this point. Maybe that’s why I’m wasting my favor, because I want to wait until I’ve got full strength in both my hands and legs.”


            “You want to get him immunity?” she asked, ignoring my implication.




            “What about you?”


            “What about me?” I asked. “So far no one has tried to frame me.”


            “What do you want for all of this?”


            “Oh, virtue is its own reward Miss Liddell,” I said smiling.


            “If that were true, we wouldn’t need big cash rewards for information.”


            “You know, it’s very sad to see a young woman like you being so cynical,” I informed her.


            “Yes well, the justice system will do that to you.” 


            “Can you call your bosses and stuff?” I asked.


            “Yeah,” she said nodding. “But I’m going to keep wondering what you want out of this.”


            “Okay,” I said smiling at her. “You keep wondering if it isn’t obvious.”


            “I’ll see you later the,” she said and turned to walk out of the office.


            I rubbed my chin with my left hand, trying to decide how much trouble we really were in. I suppose I wasn’t really in any trouble, I wasn’t going to be wanted by anyone, at least not for official reasons, and that was an interesting point. There was only one reason I could think of that would cause that situation, but it didn’t seem to fit the evidence at hand. That meant either my evidence was bad, or I was paranoid.


            To be perfectly frank, calling myself paranoid was getting a little old, so I decided that some of the evidence at hand must have been flawed. Having made that decision with only a tiny bit of proof to back me up, I pulled open the second drawer on the left and shuffled through it for a few seconds. I got out a small notebook where I had a great deal of numbers written down that I didn’t care to get rid of. Why I still keep a little black book instead of leaving the numbers on my computer is a mystery to most people, including myself. It’s an odd little compulsion that being shot just hasn’t made go away. I flipped through it until I found a number and called it.


            “Hello?” Amy Heart said as her line connected.


            “Hello Miss Heart,” I said into the phone. “I was wondering if you were free?”


            “I’m very, very expensive,” she said, and I could hear the smile warm her voice like a candle under a snifter of brandy. “However, I’m not busy. Why?”


            “Well I was hoping I could see you for a little while.”


            “Well, I’m across the street right now,” she said, which caused me to turn my chair around a little too suddenly. “You spin around like that and you could rip the phone out of the wall.”


            “You’re watching?” I asked.


            “Yeah,” she said. “I’m supposed to see if you know where Peter Rabbit is.”


            “Well I do,” I said scanning the buildings to see if I could spot her. “Why don’t you come over? We can talk about it.”


            “Really?” she asked. “I’ll have to tell Mister Cat.”


            “Okay,” I said nodding. “Where are you anyways?”


            “Me to know,” she said and hung up suddenly.


            It occurred to me, once again, that she tended to act like people acted in movies. It was like she had never really had contact with the real world and only experienced what it should look like through television. If nothing else, it would explain her warped view of the world. I hung my phone up and turned back around so I was facing the door. I didn’t really need to get a gun, because the fact of the matter was that she’d been infatuated with me from our first meeting. Fortunately, something had always gotten in the way of us having to discuss any outcome of that infatuation, because I’d hate to be on her bad side. With my new rule about nut jobs in place though, it could get messy.


            A few moments went by and the door opened with Amy coming through. The problem with my rules and with Amy as a whole is that while she’s insane, she’s also very attractive. I’m fairly certain that if she weren’t crazy as a waltzing mice dancing across a cheese stick taped to a nuclear bomb, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to be the object of her desire. Of course, if I was right about her, the fact that her sense of loyalty seemed to involve killing people for me made me rethink our prospects.


            She reached into her coat and pulled out a Ruger with a silencer for a barrel, set it down on the edge of my desk and sat in the left hand client chair. If she wanted to shoot me, she would have to flick her hand five inches to get that thing. She smiled at me though, and that smile told me I was still in her good graces.


            “I hope you don’t mind,” she said shifting in the chair, her voice liked honeyed silk. “That thing pokes into my side when I sit down in these chairs.”


            “No problem,” I said, smiling at her. “You had a busy night last night.”


            “Yeah,” she nodded. “Cat works me hard.”


            “You sure?” I asked.


            “What do you mean by that?” she asked.


            “Well, it just seems that Mister Cat would rather blame someone who actually has a couple of kills on his record than some junkie porn star for that slaughter of yours,” I said. “I also think that Mister Cat wouldn’t subject someone who can call him Chester to what you guys did last night. He wouldn’t beat up an old friend like that and he wouldn’t frame him either.””


            “Oh no?” she asked, resting her hand on the desk, the tip of her middle finger touching the gun.


            “Even if he didn’t like Peter, he does like Flopsy,” I said leaning back and trying to remember why it was I tend to put guns in the safe. “So I have a hypothesis.”




            “Yeah,” I said. “I think you became the boss. I think when you took out The Duchess you decided to become the queen. You’re not going to be someone’s protégé anyhow. You already know how to kill people.”


            “How did you ever get to be so smart?” she asked.


            “Lucky,” I smiled, ignoring the lie of calling me smart. “So why did you make Peter bury those five other heads?”


            “Well it was his fault wasn’t it?” she asked. “All of that was really caused by him and his problems. I mean they told us how he helped them arrange it. So he should have to pay for it.”


            “So you made him bury the other heads?” I asked.


            “Yeah,” she said. “And I had Chester write down the location of each one after having Peter get his prints all over lots of things that will incriminate him later.”


            “Why slaughter all six of them though?”


            “Because they beat you up,” she said. “I don’t like that.”


            “Where is the sixth body then?” I asked.


            “Oh, you darling,” she ran a finger along her cheek in a way that was suggestive. “I didn’t think you’d notice all that. We’ve got it on ice somewhere, in case I need it. I mean if I needed to finish Peter up I would have it.”


            “But I screwed that up huh?”


            “Not completely,” she said. “I could still frame him.”


            “Could we not frame him?” I asked.


            “What do you have in mind?” she asked.


            I told her.


Amy left a little over an hour later, leaving me her calling card. This isn’t a euphemism, but rather a small card with her name on it. This was one of the things that led me to believe that Amy was the sort of person who had learned about humanity from books and movies. It was a relic from the Edwardian era, just a card with her name and where she could be found. No phone number, but the location of a hotel written in her hand. It had a device I recognized though, a small heraldic unicorn was rampant in the upper left hand corner of the card, which was the emblem of the group she was working with.


            I forget what UNICORN is supposed to stand for, and I suspect that whatever it does stand for was shoehorned into the name which was undoubtedly picked first. I had heard about the group a few times, Smith had muttered about them once or twice in our dealings. He had muttered them because when the Tweedle Twins had their big breakup there was talk that the fallout between them had been because of the group.


            It was nice to know that Amy had found herself in with such an interesting group of lunatics, but it worried me too. This wasn’t just a matter of getting Amy angry at me after all, it was getting an entire gang that did naughty things for a living angry. I’m not a panicky person, I’ve pointed guns at the likes of Church after all, but one doesn’t remain healthy and happy by annoying large international syndicates that the authorities like to pretend don’t exist.


This is part nine of twelve, come back next week for part ten and every Thursday until we’re done to see what happens next. If you get lost, one of the tags here should help you. The Wonderland tag will take you to the story while the Jack Tag will take you to Part One of every story we post here.

February 26, 2009 Posted by | Fiction, Jack | | Leave a comment

Henry Ford Museum: Trains and Luggage














February 25, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | | Leave a comment

I has a swordy-sword

Look what came in the mail for ME today! One of these! I knew about it, we ordered it last week. This isn’t some gift from a secret admirer, more a gift from a public admirer that I get to hug and kiss everyday. The really cool part is that it’s just as great as those pictures suggest, which I think we all know is something of a victory in the annals of catalogue shopping. The only things are the scabbard is a darker red than the pictures suggest (very cool) and the furniture is painted rather than being gilded which doesn’t affect me either way because it’s pretty gorgeous for the price.

Now tp just get myself one of these and I’ll have a matched set. Almost, the contrast will look cool I think. Of course I could just get one of these or these and have an actual matched set. Actually, the problem is the sets I want don’t get sold as sets and I don’t feel like providing links for all three blades from two different sets just to say “these or these” ya know?


Anyway, point is, good sword, happy me.

February 25, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | Leave a comment