Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Stalling. Stalling. Need... More... Time

At 6000 hits, nothing much happens to this blog.

But there are great things ahead.

Truly magnificent.

Trust us.

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Meanwhile, back at the farm

Well, the operator promised we'd be back online in 3-5 weeks. Until then, we'll be staring into our new fireplace and eating waffles.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

OK, busted

Sunday, March 19, 2006


But still offline.

Sunday, March 12, 2006

We're going off the air

And we'll be off for an unknown period. We're moving HQ to a better place near the sea, on the foot of a mountain.

Today's Christian lesson: The power of giving

When you become detached mentally from yourself and concentrate on helping other people with their difficulties, you will be able to cope with your own more effectively. Somehow, the act of self-giving is a personal power-releasing factor.

Saturday, March 11, 2006

Sure, he was a right bastard

But did you have to assassinate him?

He died of natural causes did you say? And the crown witness committed suicide a week ago?

This international justice thing is getting more ridiculous by the minute. Many of the most horrific war crimes of all time have indisputably been committed by the United States of America, and yet

a) Americans are immune to the international justice system.
b) The system is directed exclusively at the enemies of America.
c) The American government can off you whenever it wants to.

Well, well. No empire lasts forever.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Geometry of a decent tease

Any other angle is a punishable crime.

Everyday poetry interrupted

Phew! Back to normal

Now that the international women's day is finally over, we have some unfinished business to atend to.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Happy international women's day!

Barking up the right tree


White letters on the mountain.

Everything must go.

The forbidden room.

Tools for an exorcism.

The scarlet woman.

'M' runes.

The exorcism.


Doors that lead nowhere.

A daring escape.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Two fistfulls of pinkish-grey tissue...

...Wrinkled like a walnut, and with the consistency of porridge.

I am referring of course to the human brain, that wonderful piece of machinery. Capable of such intricate calculation, responsible for the construction of all those innumerable, magnificent wonders of art and science that surround us.

10.000 years ago it figured out how to produce alcoholic beverages, until very recently the only liquids safe to consume. Since that time it has been frequently intoxicated. That doesn't seem to have slowed it down much. Hurrah!

Go this way

Then take a sharp luft.

Follow the boy into the tree. Don't speak to him. He won't answer.

While you're down there, don't let this man talk you into buying anything.

You should surface here.

When you see a sign that says Canoe you are on the Fleur-de-Lis trail.

When you reach the farthest shore, sell the canoe. It will come to good use.

Don't give up. You're almost there.

Go past the woman who plays this instrument.

Don't be afraid!

Go on, ring the doorbell.

Monday, March 06, 2006

What type are you?

In order to really understand you, our readers, we have to break you down into categories. Be completely honest. This is important, especially with you type b girls.

Personally, I fall into the type f category, although I do have type j ears (not shown).

The answer is no

You have got to be fucking kidding me with this. Why do you think I moved to Canada in the first place?

Sunday, March 05, 2006

The SHÄDY ÄCRES pop quiz

The famous writer invited these two students to a book launch after-party held at an undisclosed location inside Bono's house in order to:
a) Discuss the role of modern literature in secular Islam.
b) Drone on and on about his earwax problem for hours.
c) Make himself the curdled cheese in these girls' palak paneer curry, if you know what I mean.

Friday, March 03, 2006

The SHÄDY ÄCRES pop quiz

Knowing what you do about human nature, you think the kid should:
a) Enjoy the free lunch.
b) Do the right thing and pay for his own spaghetti with meat balls.
c) Run to the hills, run like the wind. That Tom of Finland looking cop and his dope fiend cousin are clearly in a child porn ring.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Sharpen your peduncles, monkeys

Venus in furs and her lunch

It's not every day you see a fox wearing a fox named Freddie.

Blög cemetary

My brother the blög mortician has a thought-provoking post about what happens to a blög when it dies. I am not a religious man myself, but I guess we all wonder - don't we? On that note, I would like to take a minute to remember Palimos ng Pag-Ibig, a little blög that died one year ago.

Although that crazy, wonderful, philippino blög lived for only 5 short months, it touched us all. Named after the 1985 philippino romantic drama, it was kept by a woman by the profile name of Nadia Cole (not a relation), and though she wrote in Bundak half the time, it still somehow made sense.

A chronicle of Nadia's journey from being a kept mistress to being an independent car saleswoman, it told the story of a young mother's struggle for self reliance in the whirling metropolis of Manila.

Unforgettable characters like the baby "K" sent to live with his grandmother, and the looming figure of "AM", com-bined to make this a truly human story. And all human stories must, inevitably, come to an end.

In the words of Nadia Cole: What's the purpose of staying in this blog when I'm no longer "kabit lamang"?

Wednesday, March 01, 2006


Me and the czaritsa were talking about how we should tell more bog stories. We each have so many we could easily present them to you in a manner reminiscent of a ton of sardines being poured over, let’s say, a giraffe.

The only problem is, most of them are either unsuited to this format, not funny enough, too personal or flat out self-incriminating. But you know what? I think I’ve got one for you.

The other day we were out walking in the fine weather. We had taken the scenic route through a part of town we don’t usually visit, an area where we’ve both lived at different times of our lives, separately, back in the long years when we were just friends. Or at least worked very hard at being just friends. Well, not that hard really, but I wasn’t technically married yet and Sara was underage so I guess it doesn’t count. Anyway, I digress.

First we passed the apartment Sara once shared with a cross-eyed anorectic so stingy she charged for toilet paper by the sheet. We could see that there had been a fire a floor above her old room; the soot had left a triangular streak up across the white wall from the boarded-shut window.

Secondly, we passed the Masonic lodge, an ugly, concrete lump in dire need of a tender hand. That place is a mess: The temple-like entrance looks like an honorary medal slapped on a bum in a boiler suit. What kind of a Masons are they anyway, they don’t know jack about architecture? It’s almost so you want to join them just to get someone started on the maintenance.

Thirdly, we passed the ground floor flat I shared with 5 other monkeys back when I was the ringleader of an anarchist terror cell. Through the bamboo curtains the place looked exactly the same. The peeling wallpaper, the stained carpet, the cast iron stove. There was an eerie photocopy taped to the front door. Underneath the blurry picture of a cat’s face, it read:

Look after your cats. There is a vile cat murderer loose in the neighborhood. We found our cat Munchies hanged in a tree by a metal cord. If you have any information, call this number.

You’re thinking, like I am: Capturing and torturing some poor animal for kicks - who does such a horrible fucking thing? But in your heart you know it happens all the time, and worse.

Some cowardly sadist too weak to perform the act on another human being. A deranged homeless person. A group of kids ignored by their parents. Some monster is in the making, always.

Anyway, these three houses triggered a memory in me, a memory about a fourth house.

It was in the early nineties and I was maybe eighteen. We were building an organization of squatters. A group of us were charting the empty buildings all over the city, looking for prospects. Once we knew of a new address an advance party of two or three would break in at night and scout it using the building blueprints which we acquired from the city archives. We had become quite expertly at it, we had the tools and the motivation.

One time we heard of a new one in a quiet neighborhood. There’d been some kind of fire but the owners hadn’t started the renovation yet, they’d simply boarded up the two lowest floors so the drunks wouldn’t move in. Me and a few others went there one night to check it out. We jimmied a basement door and got in, started moving up the stairs floor by floor, careful with our flashlights. The house was mostly empty, a little furniture scattered here and there, waste, building material. It looked like a good squat. Then we found something on the top floor.

The whole floor was empty, but there was this one, big room off to a side. It was painted dark red and had a large, curtained window. As soon as we walked in we knew it was a bad room. There were markings on the walls, symbols. The only piece of furniture, a flat, narrow divan upholstered in a coarse, black fabric, stood alone in the exact middle of the room, underneath a system of tracked hooks from the ceiling. It was stained by what I at the time interpreted as a mixture of semen and blood.

We found some papers piled in a corner, drawings, scribbling, they didn’t make much sense. Then we found the dead kitten. After that we didn’t want to have anything more to do with it so we took a quick vote and left. Being who I am I took the papers with me.

I didn’t know what I had. We didn’t mix with the devil worshippers or the occultists. Those people were mostly spoilt black metal kids or pathetic, old guys looking to get laid. Then there were the Wiccans, self obsessed to a point where they interpreted everything in relation to their own menstrual cycles.

I talked to a friend who knew some people, tried to find out what I’d found. I think it was a formula for a ritual of some sort, but it was written in a kind of symbolic shorthand that I couldn’t break. A few weeks went by and I went about the business of being a delinquent. Then my friend told me she’d talked to someone. She couldn’t say who it was but they really wanted their papers back. Who can I contact? They’ll be in touch.

This was in the dark ages before the mobile phone. I received a letter a few days after, in overly elaborate, antique handwriting: To return the material I had obtained, which was not my property, would I kindly take a meeting at such and such a time, at the patisserie in front of the hall of justice? Thank you.

I was there half an hour early. The place was full of little old ladies. I sat there, drinking my coffee, watching the entrance. I don’t know what I was expecting.

In those days you could smoke indoors. I was rolling a cigarette when someone sat down at my table. When I looked up I saw a little old lady, maybe 70 years old, dressed in beige.

She asked me if I had the papers. I gave them to her. She got up and left. I thought about following her, but then I changed my mind.