If you have a moment to spare...

"This" here meaning blogging.

I should have more to say than what I have so far.

The problem, I think, is my work ethic.

I have all of these half-formed ideas, partly thought-out plans, half-baked schemes running around in my head, and surely at least some of them are worth fleshing out, but the effort required to do so seems to be too much.

This is not good, as the effort required to do so consists of going to this website and logging in.

I'm mildly alarmed, to tell you the truth.

I've managed to post a blog on my MySpace. I accomplished this only because the option to do so was right there, and I managed to convince myself that I might get a reward for my effort.

Again, I realize that there is essentially no effort involved at all.

...

Typing this, I may have come up with a solution.

I'm going to resurrect my blog on MySpace, and use it in the experiment I outlined in the blog I posted there. In short, I will use my new, zombielike MySpace blog to toss a few ideas around, practice writing, et cetera, and the good stuff, should any surface, I'll post here, so you folks reading this now can tell me how to improve it.

Since I expect "good stuff" will take a while, don't hold your breath, unless you can hold it for a re-heeeally long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, time.

[See? I do need to improve. I only managed one reference this post.]

...as I'm about to scamper off to a church for the first time in a long, long while.

I expect that to be a story worth telling, so look for that soon.

In the meantime, I had a few minutes left over after taking a test today, so after my customary nap, I decided to write a song.

It is as follows:

[By the way, as always, I want feedback. 'Tis a work-in-progress.]

I'm Pretty Much Amazing

I'm pretty much...amazing.
I'm wonderful...the best.
I'm at the top, cream of the crop,
And, well, you know the rest.

I'm constantly astounded
By my own charm.
I'm suave, debonair, and fly.
People are dumbfounded,
Struck with alarm,
That I'm such a stellar guy.

I'm pretty much...amazing
Grandiose and beyond scope
Not any of my enemies
Will say I'm at all a dope

I've always been bothered
By the fact
That I'm the best I've ever seen.
Never saw another
With no lack,
Polished to a glassy sheen.

I'm pretty much...amazing
And to be honest, kinda bored.
Yes, I'm weary, and somewhat leery
That I'm so great, I'm abhorred...

I really, really don't want
To be better.
That's just how the dice fell.
But I know a girl who'll daunt
If you ket her.
I'm glad to be able to tell:

She's pretty much...amazing.
A pristine example of cool.
I've found one, who's lots of fun,
And causes me to play the fool.

I still cannot believe my luck.
I'm quite fortunate...
To think...another as good as I.
Before, at the top, I was stuck,
A perch in a net.
But now I've found a reason to try.

We're pretty much...amazing.
Man...what a pair!
She's with me, I'm with she...
Did I mention I have incredible hair?




[By the way, this song is pure fiction. Things didn't exactly pan out.]

It's equal parts jazz and pop, with a hint of big band/Broadway.

[Mainly for the purposes of constructive criticism, here's an interview I wrote in an hour or two under the influence of too much sleep and not enough caffeine.]

[Wait a minute.]

[Strike that.]

[Reverse it.]

Here it is, in its entirety:

[I'm Jeff, in case you forgot.]

ERIC: Welcome to “Late Afternoon in the Early Evening”, the show where we interview the average man-

JEFF: Hey now. Average? Man?

[Eric continues on as though he doesn’t hear Jeff]

ERIC: -on the street. I’m Eric Holtz, and joining us today is Special Test Electronic Virtual Educator, a special experimental prototype designed by Mr. Otto von Schnitzelpusskrankengescheitmeyer [struggles with name, gives up after a couple of tries and looks hopelessly at Jeff]

JEFF: Otto von Schnitzelpusskrankengescheitmeyer. Professor Otto von Schnitzelpusskrankengescheitmeyer.

ERIC: Yes, him. Anyway, the good Professor designed the Special Test Electronic Virtual Educator to-hey; can I just call you S.T.E.V.E. for short?

JEFF: You humans and your constant need for abbreviation…

ERIC: It’s only an hour show, buddy.

JEFF: Fine. As you wish. Unfortunately, I’m programmed to be acquiescent as well as user-friendly…my good chum.

ERIC: Fascinating. You have to do as people say, but you don’t necessarily like it?

JEFF: Precisely.

ERIC: Have you ever been to high school?

[beat]

ERIC: Well, let’s do the thing properly. Steve, why don’t you introduce yourself to our lovely studio audience?

JEFF: Right then. Where are they? Oh. Hello. I, as my esteemed inquisitor has implied, am an entirely self-sufficient automaton, with a positronic brain capable of handling well over two million calculations per second. I have the central processing unit strength required to simultaneously scan and process the equivalent of two hundred sixty-four thousand, five hundred and ninety-two books the size of Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, predict the weather with pinpoint accuracy for the entire western hemisphere for fifty-four years, two months, thirteen days, and six hundred forty-seven minutes, or browse up to three teenage girls’ MySpace pages at the same time. As one of my more famous fictional colleagues summed it up: I have a brain the size of a planet.

ERIC: Well, that’s all very interesting, but-

JEFF: Wait, I’m not finished. I can speak any language that a human can, English, Portuguese, Farsi, Klingon; I can interface with everything from a Commodore 64 to Deep Blue. I can discuss the intricacies of submarine warfare and the proper method with which to serve tea. I know Shakespeare, Hemingway, Tolkein-

ERIC: Uh, about Shakespeare-

JEFF: I can defend myself, and those around me, with several hundred different styles of self-defense, original wording, I know, and lift one metric ton over my head. When you take in all of these attributes, as well as my conversational subroutines, such as obscure pop culture references, you can see why I’m such a hit at parties.

ERIC: I bet.

[conversationally]

JEFF: You’ve got to know when to hold ‘em.

[Looks pointedly at Eric]

ERIC: Know when to fold ‘em.

[Returns stare]

JEFF: Know when to walk away.

ERIC: Know when to run.

[Hold stare for laughs, then, at signal, simultaneously shake heads and turn toward audience]

ERIC: Sorry, folks. After a word from our sponsors, I’ll try to get this conversation on track…


JEFF: The makers of To Bee or Not To Bee insecticide have a new product line they want you to remember, Out Damn Spot Cleaning Fluid. Remember: ‘But, here’s a spot…Out Damn Spot! Out, I say!’ Two easy payments of fifty-nine ninety-nine.

[Like, crazy fast.]

ERIC: Note: Cleaning fluid may not actually clean. Side effects may include spots, guilt-induced hallucinations, scuttlebutt among the servants, and lupus. Not approved by the FDA, FBI, FAA, FFA, any PhDs, MDs, DDSs, or RCMPs.

[Normal speed]

JEFF: RCMPs?

ERIC: Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

JEFF: Ah.

ERIC: Remember, Out Damned Spot!


ERIC: And we’re back…relatively. You know, Steve, we brought you here to “Late Afternoon in the Early Evening” because your creator…

JEFF: Professor Otto von Schnitzelpusskrankengescheitmeyer.

ERIC: He is under the impression that you’ve been getting a bit of a big head.

JEFF: …Do what?

ERIC: He thinks you’re being too egotistical. Self-centered. Cocky. Bigheaded. Arrogant.

JEFF: So, when I’m thinking of what to get you for Christmas, I can forgo a thesaurus?

ERIC: Yeah, comments like that. Well, he decided to have us knock you down a couple of pegs.

JEFF: Oh?

ERIC: By talking about the one subject you have the most trouble with.

JEFF: Ha, that tickles my circuits. A subject I have trouble with?

ERIC: Yep. Human ambition.

JEFF: Shazbot.

ERIC: That’s right. We’re going to discuss humans, and how they always want more, more, more.

JEFF: How do you like it, how do you like it?

ERIC: You realize no one gets these song references, right?

JEFF: [sighs] I realize it. Professor Otto von Schnitzelpusskrankengescheitmeyer doesn’t.

ERIC: Anyway, could you explain why you don’t understand human ambition?

JEFF: Well, even armed with my sharp wit, lovely tone, wonderful diction, and many, many other attributes, I’m lucky enough to be a logician, first and foremost. I don’t need anything more than I have already, and, strictly speaking, neither do most humans. Yet, there is always this drive, this constant struggle to get more money, better grades, the throne of Scotland…I, and I detest saying this, I don’t understand. I was not programmed with emotions, and sometimes that makes me feel sad, but people criticize me for not sympathizing with the species that created me. How can I sympathize with beings that seem to have no control? I ask you, my good chum, how can you sympathize with your own kind? Your people have been known to murder, maim, destroy, and give nasty Indian burns to people for no reason other than their own selfish gain! How do you sleep at night? I don’t sleep at night, of course, but if I could, I don’t think I could.

ERIC: Folks, ask for a transcription after the show. Believe it or not, that actually made sense. Not much sense, but some.

JEFF: You still have not answered my admittedly poorly worded question. How do you keep on truckin’ with all you know about human ambition?

ERIC: Well, I actually know a bit more.

JEFF: Like what, mayhap?

ERIC: Ambition can be a good thing, too.

JEFF: Give me several examples.

ERIC: Augusto Odone. Ambitiously worked to find a cure for ALD. Chris Gardner. Ambitiously worked to provide for his son. Patch Adams. Ambitiously worked to create a fun, happy hospital.

JEFF: Ok, give me some examples that weren’t made into major motion pictures.

ERIC: My point remains valid.

JEFF: I suppose I can see what you’re saying…Human ambition is just like humans themselves. Usually, a terrible blight on the world, but every once in a while, somehow, something good comes out of it. Rarely.

ERIC: And gets made into a film, yes. Stay tuned after your local news for “Too Darn Late with Jeff Shirey,” where the guests tonight will include Amelia Earhart, Mohandas Gandhi, and Matti Schumacher. I’d like to thank my own guest, so, Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto. Now, you all know the traditional ending for my show. Everybody do the Robot!

[Outro music--face-melting techno]

I had planned to finish my tale of what I like to call "The Case of the Nottinghamshiretonville Incident," or "the Nottinghamshiretonville Incident" for short, the day after I posted the original, but due to some unforeseen difficulties and delays, this is the first time since that day I've actually had access to the Interwebs.

As a matter of fact, it's a long, involved, entertaining, and possibly true story that, if you don't mind, I'd like to share here:

It started one morning, around noonish. Well, it was actually 9:13 A.M., but that's beside the point. I awoke early, as is my custom, and...

[Note to self: Join Baker Street Irregulars.]

Sorry.

Sudden thought.

Anyway, I was up one morning, possibly meditating, probably cooking myself a hearty breakfast to give me the energy needed to sit around doing nothing.

Enter my mother, carrying a steaming mug of hot cocoa. She convinced me that she made it for me, and I hesitantly accepted.

I took a sip, noting an unusual taste but merely attributing it to my mother's recipe.

My mother's recipes are full of unusual tastes.

I drained the cup and began rinsing it out in the sink when I began to feel a little woozy. I stumbled over to the couch, thinking that if I sat down, the sudden dizzy spell might suddenly clear up.

Nothing doing.

So I decided to lie down for a bit, take a short nap, nothing irregular there.

I awoke several hours later and saw that I was buckled into a red minivan heading south at a clip of around seventy miles per hour. After I had deduced this from the rate of the stripes on the road, I noticed the speedometer, and, more notably, the person behind it, who happened to be driving the vehicle.

She said, "Oh, are you finally up?"

I replied, "Ma, if you had asked, I probably would have come. You didn't need to slip...I'm guessing, here...twenty...five, maybe?...grams of Symoxin into my cocoa."

"Yeah, you're probably right. I only used twenty-three grams, though."

"Ah. I over-estimated the effects of the caffeine in the hot chocolate. Rookie mistake."

"That's okay, Jeff, you're young, don't worry. I'm sure you'll get knocked out many times over before you're done."

"Oh, thank you, Mom."



Ah well.

I'll continue "The Case of the Nottinghamshiretonville Incident" another time.

With all due respect,
jdogmoney

NOTE: All language translated to modern English, including place names.

Once, in fifteen fourteen, I stepped out of the TARDIS that a friend of mine let me borrow. It was cleverly disguised as an azalea bush, since its chameleon circuit was working fine, of course.

I blinked at the setting English sun, adjusted my overcoat and aviators, and looked for the second time at the small village of Nottinghamshiretonville. The first time I was there, sixty-three years later, nothing notable happened. This time was different.

Since this was Elizabethan England, I doffed the specs and took a closer look around. The place was deserted.

I frowned in confusion. There was at least, I did some quick calculations, half an hour of daylight left. There should be a flurry of activity as shops closed, merchants packaged their wares, and children were called home to be scolded for having played in mud.

But it was a ghost town. Completely dead.

Being the keen investigative mind I am, I decided to see what was amiss. As is the standard operation procedure for such situations, I headed straight for the largest and healthiest-looking cottage, since that's usually where the mayor lived. I reached for the dull brass knocker, but drew back because I noticed a fine layer of dust.

I leaned forward to take a closer look, and heard a piercing shriek.

Momentarily distracted from my doorman duties, I glanced at the source of the ghostly wail.

A middle-aged woman, with a rough braid in her greying hair, was leaning on her windowsill, gasping for breath. I couldn't blame her, as she had just expelled enough air to fill several weather balloons.

I heard a commotion in what I could only assume was her house, her being in it and all, and suddenly an older man clad in a dressing gown and some very thick, very stout boots exploded out the front door. He, in an admirable effort for one his age, sprinted toward me and vaulted over a couple of hedges.

Before I could question what such properly-trimmed bushes were doing in sixteenth-century England, the amateur Olympian tackled me. Normally, I would not have been had so easily, but the sight of this guy, running full tilt at me, pajamas flapping in the wind...

It was unusual, to say the least, and it caught me off-guard.

As the man pinned me to the ground, I noticed for the first time how large his eyebrows were. They weren't in need of a good plucking, the needed a good mowing. These brows reminded me of the summer I spent in the Amazon, only the rain forest wasn't quite so bushy. I was almost certain that a family of gnomes was in each eyebrow. I was tempted to poke one with a stick to see if it would growl at me, or just take the stick and beat me over the head with it. What I'm trying to say here is they were large.

"Are you crazy, kid?!" he said, inches away from my face.

[Remember, I'm translating all dialogue, terminology, and measurements into modern English.]

Still transfixed by his massive sincipital follicles, all I could come up with was a hearty "Uuuhhhh..."

"You're new here, aren't you?"

I shook my head, not to answer negatively, but to clear it, and answered in perfect period English, "Yep. Mind if I come in?"

Having a very strong cup of tea in his home, the man filled me in. Apparently, there was an evil, golden-haired witch that had been casting spell after spell, bringing all kind of dark misfortune upon the small village of Nottinghamshiretonville, with early winters, sick livestock, bad harvests, all caused by the arrival of this malevolent being a few years ago. They stayed away from the witch in the hopes that they wouldn't offend her in some way, and left gifts periodically to please her.

I of course took this to mean some poor woman moved into town at the same time as a run of bad luck, and got blamed for every last stubbed toe ever since.

I saw an opportunity to do some good for a change, and offered my assistance with the "witch."

Raucous laughter was not the reaction I expected.

"You are crazy, boy. That witch will skin you alive, grind your bones, and use it as flower for bread!"

"No, actually, you're thinking of a giant."

"What? No, seriously, kid, you'd have to be nuts to even consider such a course of action."

"Care to make it interesting?"

"..."

"Yes, I mean a wager."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, I'll vanquish the "witch" for a nominal fee, and if I fail, you can keep...uh...this magical watch!"

He looked at me like I was insane or something.

"Oh, right, sixteenth century...uh, this...magic...vision...thing."

I held up a Gameboy Color.

He just stared at the yellow plastic until I thought to turn it on.

He fell back in his chair at the sight of the Gamefreaks logo, and I knew I had a deal.

...At least, that's what I'd like to type. The truth is, it took me several hours to convince him that I wasn't a demon, and even longer to strike an acceptable bargain.

Satisfied, I left his house and went up to the "witch's" house, only stopping for one last piece of advice, shouted to me by the man I affectionately dubbed Murphy. He never told me his name, and it's a rather obscure Paper Mario: The Thousand Year Door reference, which is always good.

"One last thing! Stop putting quotes around the word "witch" when you say it! She won't like that!"


To be continued...

[I bet you're wondering where this is going. I'm kind of interested as well.]

...at two-thirty in the afternoon, mind you, I wonder if I should have gone to school today.

Sure, I would have played terribly in the morning's jazz band.

Granted, I couldn't have translated the back of a quarter in Latin.

And of course, I would have done nothing at all in English.

[That's not due to my infirmity, that's due to us never doing anything in English.]

At lunch, I could have infected the entire group of friends I eat lunch with with whatever it is I have.

[I'm sorry, I'm too out of it to rephrase that last sentence effectively.]

And I don't think I could take my PSAT prep class at all, with Julie taunting me with the new Zelda game the whole period.

And, no, she doesn't actively taunt me.

But she owns it.

And I don't.

And I despise her for that.

Otherwise, she's one of my dearest friends.


But all of the above may have been better than where I am now.

Sitting at home, being miserably sick with nothing to do.


Sure, I could try to discern what I got for Christmas.

But that's too easy.

I've read Sherlock Holmes.


I could, probably, play one of the easier video games I have.

But I might get the whole "You're well enough to play video games, you're well enough to go to school" spiel.

Playing games is a lot easier than coming to terms with the constant...peopleness of the people I come into contact with on a daily basis. That quality isn't exactly a bad thing, but it can be a bit overwhelming.


So, the main reason for this post?

Something for my disease-addled mind to do.


With all due respect, and my most sincere apologies,
jdogmoney

Were I to go with the literal meaning, a web log, it'd be a straight account of my daily goings-on. I could certainly do that, but even with my considerable writing skills, the daily misadventures of an eccentric teen would probably grow boring after a while. If I can get bored with the daily cycle, as happens sometimes, then I couldn't bring myself to subject both of my readers to the monotonous workings of my life.

I could abbreviate, only post when something notable occurred. Then again, what is notable to me, say, someone allowing me to hold a door open for them, can be completely irrelevant to most people.

Which reminds me, did you hear the one about the large, gray animal from Africa?

Never mind, it's irrelevant.

*badum tish*

Where was I?

Man, when it comes to staying on track, I don't exactly get high Marx.

*badum tish*

I thankyew, I thankyew.

Hey, tip your waitress.

Sorry.

I could follow the example of my good friend, LAEvanesce, and post poetry and my thoughts on any subject that happens to come to mind. A noble pursuit, but I'm afraid that I've not written any poetry in entirely too long. I don't know if I could take up the quill again...I probably should, actually. It's been a while, but I may still have that old creative spark. Even if I did start writing poetry again, it wouldn't be anywhere near as good as LAEvanesce's...

In fact, you could say I...kneel...at his writing skills?

*badum*

What, no cymbal?

Too inside, eh?

All right then, forget the whole thing..

I could take a political slant on everything. Of course, no matter what stance I take on any subject, there's always someone who'll disagree with me. That's just how it is with politics. But, of course, since I'm always right, conversely, that means someone else will always be wrong, and I can't be responsible for that.

[And my PSAT scores said I needed to work on logical reasoning.]

So I don't know.

I think this will be an "all of the above" type situation. I can't really make myself stick to any particular category, so I'll flit from one to the next, typing anything that I think that any random stranger may want to read.

So, please, if you're a stranger, and you're random, leave some feedback.

With all due respect,
Jeff "jdogmoney" S.

Postscript: You may have noticed, in my signature, that if my post is aimed at the internet in general, I'll sign with jdogmoney, but if the people I know personally may get it more, I'll go with Jeff. And if I'm not sure which is more appropriate, I'll probably go with both.