I'd like to take it down a notch, whaddya say?

Yom haShoah, y'all.

It's Holocaust rememberance day. Read you some Maus, Light you some candles, watch some producers, laugh till you cry, obey your yetzer ha-tov, shun the yetzer ha-ra, don't be forgettin' now, y'hear?

This is a little of what we do here. No, it is what we do here. Under all the tanks and the lulz and Darling Adolphe's dancing Stormtrooper Review and Krystallnacht Cabaret, we are telling and retelling the tale of some funny little men who were nevver quite laughed at enough, not in the right way. Should we laugh at the holocaust? I think so, because it helps us cry better. Many times, laughing allows us to cry when we can't do anything else. It allows life to continue. You bury what hurts you under layers of thick and unspeakable black, and you cringe and crawl away from things that bring it up again, you lost that. I wish the Germans laughed more. I wish the Germans had laughed more back then. A proper sense of the rediculous might have awoken the people in Germany, in Austria, and in Poland particularly to the farce in which they were taking part before it became the tragedy that it ultimately became. But anyway. You forget, you try to forget, you just want to forget.

But laughter, you don't forget. Even the painful laughter. So laugh, darlings, laugh and never forget. It doesn't make it okay, but it does allow us to go on and remember both at the same time.

Until tikkun olam,

Shalom Alecheim.

Just sayin',
K.

whut no lulz?

I have no original content for you to-day, and I'm not in the mood to share the slightly depressing self-incriminating snippets I've turned up. So here, have a this, which is not by me... it has semi-panzeriche!:



And a kitteh.

Heee... kitteh.

A few words about Irony.

Irony, in my humble, is stronger than the force. It surrounds us and binds us true, though sometimes it binds us in the Great Chain, sometimes in a great big hug, sometimes in a shibari bondage kit with ball gag. I give Karma a certain amount of credit for giving me certain choices and presenting me with situations that I might not otherwise have. But that is one thing. Distinct from Irony. Or the amusing coincidence.

Which is what happens when an ex-girlfriend who works in hollywood FX IMs you to let you know that she is working on the Project Valkyrie movie.

And you think, "Damn, I am probably not in that movie at all." Though other people you know will be.

Yes, those are the moments.

*grumbleSpeergrumble*

(p.s.-- I am jealous of the fellow who gets to be played by Eddie Izzard. Also, "Angry SS Officer" = BEST ROLE EVAR. I mean... isn't it just so!)

Some jobs just suck.

Dead Nazis shouldn't work in kennels. Too many fences, and too many flies. At least there wasn't barbed wire.

A bad job is just a bad job. Some lessons endure.

Life and Times.

It's morning, so I am going to go do laundry at the coin-op and get bagels with Gestapo Jones.

I live with Gestapo Jones now. Remember please that reincarnation is a search, often. But that is not what I wanted to write about.

I wanted today to talk about bagels.

I love bagels. But I do not like lox. I think this is a measure of criminal guilt amongst nazis of the dead variety. Gestapo Jones is a salmon bagel aficionado. Me, I never had to force down the stuff. Clearly, I have demonstratively less guilt. I should make a formula of some sort about this.

Imagine, for example, the excess of guilt necessary to enjoy gefelte fish.

(Latkes don't count, however. Everybody with a soul likes latkes. Unless you don't like potatoes, and then you just probably have some Irish issues.)