Jessica Fogle: Ray Fans!

As a #1 Ray Fan myself, I dedicate this page to his writing. Some short-storyesque, some bloggy, some poetry, all Ray. For those Ray fans out there, this is for you.

-Jessica

p.s. to read his poetry that has ended up as songs/collaborations between us, go to "Music" and click on song titles w/ a * next to them...or ones that say "words by R.B." or something like that. For now I think it's just Duct Tape and Head to Head, but I have 12 albums worth of songs ready to be recorded, album 2 is being worked on and there are 3 of his on there, and albums 3-12 have some on em too, anywhere from 0-4 are poem-songs of his per album...which doesn't help the curious among you, but I'm just sayin.

Up Top:

heads like dewdrops colored hair spots bald and bangs
open pints orange and white empty eyeballs in a glass
greenbacks soggy underneath
drippy writings on saturated napkin


Straight Ahead:

Glass army filled with thickness
thick hands and grubby nails present
drinks and change
inside this cluttered mirror’s face behind me


Across:

Depth liquid mixes with
palms and more glass
Seeming same thing
here to there

Behind:

All my friends
asking and singing
from here to there
“Shall I go?”

Askew:

I’m going
home to
my
wife.

Holding your eye
in the palm of mine
black coal
reflection

so we go

distance in a glance
so blink
a car crash and a
reverence

and so we go

Oxygen on top
cards and board games
for example
and we breathe

and it goes

Stars
Archeological find
A pitch
and a miss

and then we hide

Colloquial mess
speaks
for us
and shatters more glass again

and so we peek

Another tale
of old
Hating the weekdays
with melody

We look

A black eye before me
Reflection distortion
This side of the bed
I leave

So sigh

Wind blowing through
With a hint
Lips a mess
and no consonants

We speak

Call the trees
for distance
And we’re
close

Let’s dance

Black eye
in the palm of my hand
I see
me.




-written June 18th 2009

(around the year 2009)

Jack and Jill
(without Jack)
Her horrible
experience
[aka...Jill’s senseless death]


You walk up the hill
like gods confused

You’re back where you start
Jealous of the stars

Fear is your spear
but we’ve gone

That new coat
is too long

So you stumble
back down the hill

Heels and all

Pride lets you drown in the bucket you
brought

A handful of grass
dyes your hands green

And inside your open mouth
a silent scream

No one comes here to pick you up

Your body sprawl
is an Infinite Jest

a Never-Thought
a Desperate Death

On the side
of a hill

About me:
Hmmm...about me...well, I....I mean...I am...I was born...I, uh...OK let's see...I...was raised by a family of renegade ellipses who traveled the globe fighting for alernatives to logical connectives that join two subjects or thoughts. As a youth I was subjected to hours upon hours of "The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show" in order to devise ways of connecting the dual titles of each episode without using the conjunction "or". At the age of seventeen I had had enough. Before I slammed the door to my parents home, I screamed, "You never understood me and you never will!". Well that was the proverbial "straw". You see, the black sheep of our family is my uncle And, whose name I was told never to mention. My parents and I haven't spoken since. I now live in Chicago with my fiancee Ms. F____, our pet chinchilla (Parenthetical), and uncle And. He's old and a bit too agreeable, but he helps to pay rent by publishing limricks in our local paper's Saturday supermarket pull-out section. As for my parents, I've heard they are in the Ether now fighting to abolish such symbols and phrases as: lol, btw, :), cold enough for ya?, omg, ;), :,lmao, ", ,, brb, myspace, wtf, :(, and, and etc., etc. They were always hopeless idealists.


-blurb from Myspace, not dated

"I don’t wanna grow up, I’m a (corporate toy company) kid!"

In my state of arrested development, I wish I could do the things that I want to do. Ever see a child sit down on the floor completely out of nowhere? I want to do that. Wouldn't it be cool if you were in the midst of a board meeting sitting around that big table in suit and tie and just sigh, stand up as you push back your cushioned chair on wheels with the back of your knees, then just lay down. That would be so fucking cool. Better yet: you're shopping at Wal-Mart or K-Mart or CostCo or Target or something like that, just pushing your little cart around looking for great deals to satisfy your commercial needs and you suddenly stop, sigh, and just lay down on the skid-marked linoleum. Fucking awesome. Even more interesting, you're in the midst of a job interview--nervous, tense, gaurded, disingenuous--and just as the interviewer asks you what you find to be your best quality, you sigh and just lay down. Curl up, yawn, and scratch yourself. Study the back of your hand or the view from the floor. No one sees things from that perspective. Unless you do it. Freaking fantastic. Or if you're in the middle of a conversation and suddenly just start dancing. Looking off into space because you're lost in your own little dancing moment. Or out of nowhere when you're around a group of people just say some non-sequitur. "Peach pits look like brains". You know, something like that. Just do it. Live it. It's fun.


-written February 21st 2008

First Amendment Rules!
Dateline: February 6, 2008.



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……which illustrates what it takes for those of us without God. Is one from Britannia exempt? A man I've met on more than one occasion has died. A national, nay, a worldwide concern. Is the public eye so blind that it cannot see? From this reporter's perspective I must say YES. The Continental Buffet and Gratis Mimosas in the bar of life must have had an effect. As a nation, we have no choice but to mourn. All of us feed at the same trough collectively. In the meantime, someone turned away from it, turned around to look at it, and proclaimed, "No thank you. I'll feed elsewhere". No need for hormonal injections there. He could eat AND be a person-being. We will miss you, Algernon. Our world is incomplete without you.







COMMENTS:







I gotta say, this is the most sensitive article I've ever read about Algernon. He will be missed. I miss him already.



--Steve/Minnesota/.com







I've been to a buffet, and while I was spilling my peas, I thout of Algernon. Pleas let me know agout the memorial servise so I can give money.



--vegi@.com







No one undertnds! He didn't die because of the troff, or the indectrions!!!!!! He died becus god woud not aksept him! Doed anyone get that? Gesus will keep you safe. Aljernons ways were only a note to Heaven that heneeded help. YOU WILL ALL DIE UNLESS YOU AKSEPT GODOUR SAVYOUR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



--planegurl.com







While it is easy to ascribe fame and blame to him or her, we, here, are dealing with the death of an actual person. How does the family feel? How does it make us better or worse for commenting on this? Is my (our) concern based upon my emotional reaction? A life is gone like my father's. Do I exploit it to get reaction from a database? We can't tell at this point. Never be hurtful. God Bless You, Algernon.



--Devon@CountyKork.com







He was never rrom Brittn. He was from Iyreland. Wictch is a sub locale of Brittan. So was henry the 12th . getchur faks tstrate.



--Kevinwvirginarules!.com







Look at my website: KrazyGurl2489!







Never, never, never have I put a needle in my body. I will NEVER be a part of what illegal durgs are all about. But it takes a good person to sopt5 you. I wish I had one.



--Stan18765







Reportor? Are you effing kidding me? Youani't no reporter, you are a commentator. God is subjective. If someone dies we put hemt in a tree or kill them. No meaning to it, just death. So youre report is inconsequensial. So bad for you…



--Kevin@loyola universigy.cim.







I think pussy is grt!!!



--www.MitR$omney.com






Check outr my video. Seriously. I'm so srierous. Heres 5he drssss. Nfoyu 9t it muthu fuckers!!!







--Asstchic.coal@despreate







Being a blind person, I take offence to you with exception! Not "Ac"ception! There is no chance for me to here from you as a normal person because you have no idea what its like to mb be mnemm me! Fuck you with the vision. By the way, ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Britain includes Irland and Scotland. So being brittain is all onn an island. Iym going to surggry now. Them I will see you, asshole!!..8



--ChazDumper@icanttype







Our World is not icncomplete…;it is filled. God is here and so is somewon who turned away fron him. The public eye is not blind, it just isd afflkicted with cataraxcts. Plus iym a big proponent of "nay". Morning shousl d happen individ ually. Bleess you if you have the balls to feed elsewere. But wee will all m iss Aldgernon and srch fro him in iour quiet monments.



--raybrazaski@hotmail.com


-written February 6th 2008 (missing the video link)

The Grinch vs. Christ: Or How I Learned To Love the Easter Bunny.

Last night I was unceremoniously volunteered by my significant other, Jessica, to watch the very scattered Richie Cunningham movie and Ace Ventura vehicle "The Grinch". Lucky for us I was too tired and apathetic to put up much of a fight.

Limiting my emotional response to this version rather than the original story by Theodor Geisel or the more popular animated holiday work-horse, I ended up being quite charmed by the young actress playing Cindy Lou and, in turn, by the character's questions and doubts about the meaning of Christmas. I was reminded of the similar feelings I contend with this time of year, each year. When Grinch, disguised as Santa, responds to her question about the meaning of Christmas with "Presents!", she is genuinely crestfallen.

Now, religion (in the Christ-Mass sense) is never quite directly or indirectly offerred up as a possiblity for meaning in this story (unless you consider the idea of Santa/St. Nicholas as a proxy). There are plenty of other children's stories where you can find that. But there is a kind of religion, a non-theistic religion, at the foundation of Cindy Lou's dilemma. The most obvious being one of commercialism and/or consumerism: A flurry of activity to necessitate the act of giving to necessitate the act of buying to necessitate the act of creating cash flow to necessitate the hoped-for security of, in this case, a very small and seemingly acid-trip induced community. However I was intrigued by the slightly more subtle (perhaps) idea of rituals, where they come from, and (most intriguing to me) how we learn them. After all, the Whos have created a ritual that through the years replaced whatever (their) understanding of the original meaning of Christmas may have been. However horrible or wonderful that was, it's obvious that they have surrendered to the act of ritual rather than the meaning of ritual.


[I must note that at this point I've completely gone off the deep end with this holiday movie that may actually be enjoyable to some children and their families. Perhaps Geisel's original story merits this horrible masturbatory, intellectual dissection. The movie was just a spring-board, damnit! But I digress...]

And we're back in 3...2...

All of this (for better or worse) caused my synapses to make a connection to a discussion I had with Jessica the other night about the book I've been reading lately. The author's thrust is to throw some light on how we learn our nation's (H)istory through the textbooks all of us are issued from grade school to high school. This description is kind of a Cliff's notes version of the Cliff's notes version of what it's all about, but it will have to suffice. Incidentally, one of my favorite ideas the author uses to hold up his arguments is that history is an open-ended continuum that is happening even now at this very moment and is not locked up in some ill-constructed text book that forces history to be kept on a shelf. But again, I digress. Particularly stressed throughout is how we "Americans" are taught from a eurocentric (read: White) point of view and how that has negated any real (true) and honest education, and ultamately how that limits our ability to operate in the real world in any real way. Here he starts off with a quote from a textbook called The American Way, published in 1979. It's probably still being used in some classrooms today.

"Consider how textbooks treat Native religions as a unitary whole. The American Way describes Native American religion in these words: 'These Native Americans [in the Southeast] believed that nature was filled with spirits. Each form of life, such as plants and animals, had a spirit. Earth and air held spirits too. People were never alone. They shared their lives with the spirits of nature.' Way is trying to show respect for Native American religion, but it doesn't work. Stated flatly like this, the beliefs seem like make-believe, not the sophisticated theology of a higher civilization. Let us try a similarly succinct summary of the beliefs of many Christians today: 'These Americans believed that one great male god ruled the world. Sometimes they divided him into three parts, which they called father, son, and holy ghost. They ate crackers and wine or grape juice, believing that they were eating the son's body and drinking his blood. If they believed strongly enough, they would live on forever after they died.' "

Now, here is where my impish nature desperately wants to stop quoting because I enjoy the provocativeness of it all. Or perhaps it's the long history of my eurocentric indoctrination that compells me to control information for my own personal benefit. Whichever, in keeping with the spirit of this book, I must continue:

"Textbooks never describe Christianity this way. It's offensive. Believers would immediately argue that such a depiction fails to convey the symbolic meaning or the spiritual satisfaction of communion."

So...I'll let you, unfortunate reader, connect all these concepts however you will (or won't). What I was trying to say was that this season almost slipped by me. Mainly because I'm broke. Which caused an inability to participate in the flurry of action at a shopping mall near you. Which led to a depressed cynicism and eventually to complete apathy. In short, I cut myself off emotionally from any real understanding (or possibility of understanding) what these next few weeks could be. I guess I was so tired of, each year, feeling thrust from the shore into the raging holiday current that I stopped trying. I still kind of feel that way. But just a little less.

Thanks Richie Cunningham. Thanks Ace Ventura. My inner Cindy Lou finally got my attention.



-written Dec 9th 2007

Free to Be You and Me

..."Over the years, Falwell waged a landmark libel case against Hustler magazine founder Larry Flynt over a raunchy parody ad, and created a furor in 1999 when one of his (Falwell's) publications suggested that the purse-carrying 'Teletubbies' character Tinky-Winky was gay."

Kneeling before him, Tinky Winky slowly lowers his head from Dipsy's tummy as the internet transmission fades; the Associated Press report still a ghostly imprint behind Tinky's closed eyes.

"…It's…over," Tinky says breathlessly.

"Damn straight it's over," Dipsy grumbles. "Get up off your knees. I don't know what you're lookin' at down there, but you're freakin' me out! And besides, why do you always want to read your email on my tummy? You got one, too," Dipsy exclaims.

Laa-Laa, in a fit of frustration, kicks one of their numerous frolicking bunnies across the room and shouts, "Alright! Now Dipsy, you know you're the only one of us with wireless! Why must you always make an issue of everything? Tinky just wants to find out what's happening in the world! You know the real world? What's wrong with that? God Dipsy, can't you see you're tearing us apart?" In a fit of tears and slowly settling bunny fur, Laa-Laa collapses. Her histrionic sobbing fills the silence.

Looking up from replacing the spark plugs on her newly "pimped" scooter, Po mutters, "Yeah Dipsy. You're acting like a homophobe". And through the veil of smoke drifting from the cigarette hanging in the corner of her mouth she adds, "…I guess that makes Tinky a fag".

The laughter that follows is like that moment between calling someone by the wrong name and then realizing it. An eternity. Uncomfortable. That chilling expectation of not knowing what will happen next.

The laughter subsides.

Silence.

A multi-colored bunny hops over a pile of Po's greasy tools.

With gathering strength Tinky pulls himself up off his knees, slowly becomes erect enough to directly face Dipsy's obstinate eyes, looks around the flat that he's called "home" for so many years and quietly states, "It's over. Jerry Falwell is dead. It's over. And, yes: I am gay."

Laa-Laa, grasping handfuls of bunny fur, looks up at Tinky from the floor and gasps. Po looks up at Tinky and coughs. A bunny mounts another bunny and tries to make more bunnies. Dipsy looks at Tinky, takes a few steps back and says, "…Dude! I knew it! Po and Laa-Laa never believed me, but I knew it!"

Jumping up quickly Laa-Laa screams, "Dipsy! Don't do anything you'll regret! It's not worth it! We've known each other too long! Can't you see you're tearing us apart?" And collapses to the ground again, sobbing.

A grin touches the corner of Dipsy's puppetish lips. He grabs Tinky by the shoulders with both hands, looks him in the eyes and says, "Dude. Whatever. No more internet for you."

They chuckle. Too many years under the bridge…too much fighting and reconciling. They both look around the room to see Laa-Laa in despair, Po in thought, and bunnies going about their business.

As they all consider Tinky's not-so-revelatory revelation, a strange sense of completeness settles over the room. Po wonders if this is what was missing all along. Sure they'd managed to live together in relative peace—even with Dipsy's irritability, Laa-Laa's emotionally manic outbursts, Tinky's long bouts with depression, and all the bunny shit—but, now… It just always felt like they were coming up to a corner that they wanted to turn, but each time they got close, they found themselves approaching the same corner again. But this. This seemed…stronger.

Po stands, snuffs out her cigarette and says, "Alright. That Falwell fuck is dead, Tink's out of the closet, and the Moral Majority is in a brief recess. We got a small window here, so let's celebrate. I know a place. Shots for everyone!"

So, with all their hearts lightened, Dipsy takes the rabbit stew off the stove and puts it in the fridge, Laa-Laa gathers herself up from the floor clapping and crying simultaneously, and Tinky walks over to Po, smiling.

"Listen," Tinky says to Po. "Thanks. But I was wondering, is it okay if, instead of a shot, I get a cosmopolitan? I mean, if I'm gonna do this…

Cutting him off, Po says, "Tink…whatever you want. Let's ride!"

So, as the creepy-baby-sun-thing sets, they all ride off on Po's scooter blissfully unaware that they'll never be able to return to their home. For as they breach the dewy-green horizon, their little house-in-the-hill collapses in on itself, killing every little bunny (some of them in mid-hop), and sends up a plume of electronics and fur. A brief look of surprise crosses the face of the highly-unsettling-cooing-baby-sun monstrosity. But only for a moment. It resumes its innocent giggling and, finally, sets on another day.



The End



Tinky-Winky (Arliss Howard), eventually moved to Provincetown, Ma., openning a small designer hand bag boutique in the bustling downtown area. During the off-season months, Tinky resides in the local lighthouse making ice sculptures with nothing more than knitting needles and herbal tea bags.



Po (Michael Madsen), hopped on her scooter and traveled across America. After several run-ins with various law enforcement agencies and several stints in jail on "trumped-up" (her words) charges, the three other teletubbies lost touch with Po. Her last correspondence was post marked from Needles, California. She hasn't been heard from since.



Dipsy (Ted Levine), held a handful of various corporate IT jobs while battling a life-long addiction to Scotchguard ("I must remain stain-free!"). Deeply moved by Tinky's courage, Dipsy checked himself into a six month rehab program, came out clean, and renounced all things technological. A staunch vegan, he now lives "off the grid" in the Pacific northwest writing free-form poetry and teaching Socialist doctrine to the local flora and fauna.



Laa-Laa (Charlene Tilton), struggled for years to parlay her cable access talk show into a major network production and failed at every turn. Four divorces and three unprecedented settlements later, she bought a sprawling beach house on the southern Pacific coast. Laa-Laa became a recluse, hosting a live psychedelic web cam site called Down the Tubbie Hole. Tragically, her home was washed out to sea during a violent summer storm, with her in it. All the Coast Guard found was a furry, severed hand clutching a bottle of oxycontin. None of the remaining Teletubbies attended her funeral.



Jerry Falwell (Rip Taylor), is still dead.


-written May 20th 2007

25 Things About You

1. I am evil incarnate
2. That last one was a lie
3. I'm good at making my own fun
4. #3 explains #1 and #2
5. I love movies
6. Palm frond
7. My sense of karmic justice is challenged by the fact that the two remaining members of the Beatles are notorious for putting out luke-warm to just plain horrible solo albums
8. I love acting
9. I love blue cheese
10. I know some people spell it "bleu" cheese
11. I understand that clever people with a knack for eye-catching marketing spell cheese "cheeze"
12. I think that those people would be compelled to spell it "bleu cheeze"
13. I have no left-brain right-brain connection
14. I once shot a man just for snoring
15. Wainscoting
16. I would love to act in a movie whilst eating blue cheese
17. Carl is a non-threatening name
18. I know that the left-brain right-brain connection is called the corpus collosum
19. For Christmas of 2008, I received a collectable campaign edition paper doll cut-out book with Barack, Michelle, Malia, and Sasha Obama as the subjects.
20. In June of next year I will marry a short blond who plays piano professionally and makes my heart beat
21. A dirty martini and a medium-rare steak create a transcendent experience
22. I've had the fortune to be a background actor in two bona-fide blockbuster movies
23. I'm going to be this color for the rest of my life
24. Wait a minute...who's the Barber here?
25. I was once shot by a snoring man


-written early 2009, and Ray says "I don't as a matter of fact, I love quails." "And actually, out of all the wheels in the world, I like bicycle wheels the best." "Towel."

City of lights

I imagine that late day kind of sunlight illuminating the floating dust motes as it shines through the barred window of the cell. The scent of body odor and old steel mingle with muffled sounds of conversation and occasional shouts, distant footsteps, clanking chains; and Paris, curled up in the only corner of the cell that provides shadow from the setting sun. She curls up so tight, making herself small, small, small in that cold concrete corner. Her orange Department of Corrections jumpsuit belies her mood. She is not orangey. She is alone, frightened, defeated, and really has to pee. She cautiously raises her head like a meerkat peeking out of its burrow after a hawk has flown by: thin neck, watery eyes, and in need of another nose job. Without turning her head too much, she spys the toilet. Silver-gray-steel-coldness. Her oasis. Ironically, she thinks to herself, "I have a pot to piss in and a window to throw it out of! Ha! I can do this...I can do this!" But Paris, dear Paris, cannot think so well. Nor does she have a sense of irony. Nor do modern jail cells have windows. It's just the glare from the bare bulb in the ceiling bouncing off an 8 by 10 headshot signed by Della Reese. "Someone else who isn't here now must be assigned to this cell with me. Someone who likes Della Reese," she might think to herself. Instead, she shakes her head to clear her mind more than it already is and proclaims to no one in particular, "Why the fuck is there a picture of that black bitch from 'Touched by an Angel' on the fffuckin' wall"? As her limited eyesight trebbles, then doubles, and finally finds focus, she sees the toilet underneath the photo of that wonderful actress who went through a plate glass door so long ago. Timidly, she slowly adjusts her fetal-prone body from the corner of the cell to face the toilet. Her urgency urges her. She darts her head around like a feral cat, making sure no one can see her. Slowly, with her bladder convincing her, she approaches the toilet. Crawling toward it with shame, like a potty-trained toddler who's ruined too many mini-skirts because it's easier than finding a restroom, she pulls the orange jumpsuit off and herself onto the bowl. Ahhh...Relief. As all the alcohol, drugs, surplus protein from numerous useless encounters, shame from realizing I've never really done anything to merit this attention, all that money and time and energy wasted on staying on the cultural radar, syphlus, that undue sense of entitlement simply because of my last name, the sense that I've taken people for granted because they're not me, the realization that life is not high school, the idea that "attractive" has more to do with the sum of the parts rather than the parts themselves, and the idea that she could do more and be more, that life is larger than herself, her little thought-thing thinks, " Free! I'm free! Let me out of here! I've learned my lesson!" The cell door opens during Paris' reverie and a large guard steps in. "Ms. Hilton, you've been reassigned to an environment where your high-profile life won't be endangered. Get up and follow me." "No!" she screams. He says, "Get up and follow me. Now. There's been a lot of money paid and the public supports you, apparently. There's a nice secluded cell with perfume and a soft bed, away from the jail's population. Just like you like. Get up!" So, looking down at her naked body that she still thinks is perfect, she wipes and stands. She gathers the jumpsuit and puts it on again. And just as she moves toward the gaurd who will take her away, she turns back. And she flushes the toilet. Looking around the cell she's been in for fifteen minutes, she turns to the gaurd and says, " OK. Fine. Let's go." And the door closes on an empty cell as Della Reese watches the toilet back-up, and overflow...

-written May 10th 2007

We have to stop meeting like this...

We have to stop meeting like this. My fiancee is getting suspicious and she doesn't even read this shit. Perhaps she's got one of those brains that can sense rock-slides and thunderstorms. If so, she's never told me to bring an umbrella when it ends up raining on my way home. Which makes me think maybe she's passive-aggressive, because wet footwear is a bitch. Plus, your feet perpetually stink if you wear the same shoes after they've dried. It's like a creeping revenge. You don't notice it right away. It takes a couple of days until you mumble, "What the hell is that smell?" And then you realize: it's you. But at that point it's too late. You look around the room and everyone's face seems to say, "Yes, we smell it too. Where the fuck is that smell coming from?" But everyone has shy-eyes that try not to accuse; diverted glances filled with doubt, and you notice surreptitious sniffing of breath and various possible offending body parts. Thankfully, that's when the "Team Meeting" ends and everyone makes their way back to their cubicles. But when the room is cleared and you un-hook and gather all the equipment from your notably mediocre "power-point" presentation with Seth (that increasingly-effeminate-since-you-got-to-know-him guy from I.T.), who says, "God. That was horrible! What were you thinking with that whole 'Infrastructure-Schminfrastructure: The Key to Retiring with a Golden Parachute on an Island Somewhere After Putting All My Kids Through College and the Prison Sentence'. Way too long. Oh, crap. I broke another nail. Is that your feet I smell?" And that's when the chickens come home to roost. Or is it the roosters? Nevertheless, something roosts, and your feet have been called out. The conference room smells like a locker room without the Ben-Gay, and as you flip the last lock down on a foam-lined double-re-enforced "rock till you drop" laptop case you say, "...I think it was Gina from the secretary pool".

And you are vindicated.


-written April 11th 2007

Ray Brazaski, after several in-depth strategic and tactical conferences with himself, has come to the conclusion that the war against his dishes cannot be won.

Ray Brazaski has found through extensive geneological research that he is, in fact, the walrus.

Ray Brazaski heard all about Mop Top Festival on WXRT this morning! We're famous! It's like the new phone books are here!

Ray Brazaski can't stop the rain.

Ray Brazaski prefers real butter.

Ray Brazaski can't see anything with the blast-shield down.

Ray Brazaski is...Tilapia!

Ray Brazaski is offering drive-in clam service. Seafood sauce extra.

Dick Van Patten has just concurred that eight is truly enough.

I watched Invasion of the Body Snatchers last night and this morning I'm going to church for the 1st time in years. I sense a connection...

Ray Brazaski thinks we should all chip in for a bag of cement.

Ray Brazaski prefers the chicken salad sandwich to the egg salad sandwich, but would not decline the offer of an egg salad sandwich.

Ray Brazaski hopes to one day effectively incorporate the word "pithy" into his personal lexicon.

Ray Brazaski is obviously not beyond reproach.

Ray Brazaski 's Ithican quest has been quashed by the polytheists. Damn! You'd think if anyone would understand it'd be...screw it. I'll just go slaughter a lamb.

Ray Brazaski can't wait for February 14th, because nothing says flowers, chocolate, and romance quite like a beheaded Christian.

Ray Brazaski has no discerning taste about anything.

Ray Brazaski is not awake

Ray Brazaski is currently watching the repairman fix the toilet seat. He has no idea I'm watching him.

Ray Brazaski is England Dan and John Ford Coley.

Personal Information

Activities: Is this one of those things like when you're in your shrink's office and have to respond with the first thing that comes to your mind?

Interests: Seriously. Am I supposed to actually list things or is this that free-association thing? Anyone?

Favorite Music: Um. Is there anyone in here that can help me? Where is "here", by the way? Does it all just go away when I turn off my computer? Like the refrigerator light does when you close the door?

Favorite TV Shows: Ohhh...maybe these are rhetorical. Like you guys already know the answer and we're just nudging each other and winking because it's soo freaking obvious! Is that it? Or is it that psychiatrist's game? I totally don't think I'm doing this right.

Favorite Movies: Sea-foam.

Favorite Books:Was that right? That was the first thing that popped into my head. When it said "Favorite Movies", sea-foam was totally the first thing that popped into my head. It is a sadly underrated hue.

Favorite Quotations:" . Oh, and also ". They're very practical. They work best when at the beginning and end of what you're writing when someone said some shit at some time. Oh, wait. Was this the rhetorical part? ...DAMN IT!

About Me: Oh brother! Don't get me started! Was I supposed to answer that directly? Listen. I tried every other approach. Would "air" be appropriate? Because there is an awful lot of air about me. I'm breathing it right now. Shit. I KNEW this would never work out. I'm going back to MySpace.



-Ray's actual personal info on Facebook, written sometime in 2008