Thursday, December 31, 2009

pARRRker New Year

Here's a new song to ring it in. Click on the title.

pARRRker new year

--Dan Kilian

Mr. Bingles

Making It Work (Sometimes): Seven Song Playlist Review

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Merry Christmas!

--Dan Kilian

Our Greatest Hits, Yolks Semi-Intact

Regarding the Dawn of Language and thus the Dawn of History as a Continuous Narrative of Events, Places, People, and Things


They've determined that Sinornithosaurus millenii had grooved fangs for channelling venom.

She lurks beneath the ferns, watching the others pass.  The prey roots
for tubers and grubs, not knowing that she is there.  A fat one stops to
scrape the bark of a rotting cycad trunk.  Its tail is short and without
quills.  The bitter taste comes to her mouth and her forelimbs flex
before she even makes the decision to strike.

She leaps!

--Steve Kilian


Fire and Ice 2009 Remix

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

The Legion of Santas

They milled about, drinking hot mulled cider and networking. There was laughter and small talk, and the usual grumbling about inequity. As the banquet dragged on, the grumbling crescendoed. Armchairs were buried in stocking  hats.

“What’s taking him so long?” the President’s Day Santa wondered aloud. He held his white wig in one hand as he scratched his brown Amish style beard with the other.

The Groundhog Day Santa chuckled mirthlessly. “5 billion kids in one night, but us he keeps waiting."

"Say, would you like to buy a new mattress or boxspring?”

Finally the great man arrived. Grumbles and laughter ceased, and the collective intake of breathe, the awe of seeing his jolly-ness no less diminished than the first time each had seen him. Of course, visits like this were rare, but the sight of him was overpowering. He glowed with a power and celebrity beyond them.

Only this time the glow was of a strange aura. There was a troubled look on the fat man’s face. Santa Clause, the Christmas Santa, took his place at the head of the table. The silence of his entrance was stifled by the deeper silence as he prepared to speak. One hundred lesser Santas held their breath.

“My friends, this is once again a dark Christmas. The economy is rough. You all know that we haven’t been able to provide toys to all the children for many centuries now. We’ve had to rely on capitalism as a supplement to our toy-bringing. Well, Capitalism is on the rocks. The Moneyday Santa failed for the second year in a row.”

Members of the legion peered about for a glimpse of the Moneyday Santa, but he was nowhere to be seen.

St. Nick continued. “Not only is there not enough money to go around, but the state of merriness is at an all time low. I think years of war, political divisiveness in the states, and the economic woes have brought on an epidemic of melancholia.

“We need to do something special this year. It is time for magic to work its magic. I know we’ve had contention in the past, but now is the time to put aside differences…”

Out of the darkness to the left of The Great Santa, plumes of smoke snaked into the light, followed by a pumpkin faced Santa, his fur suit coated in soot. He said nothing, and slowly took in the room. The Thanksgiving Santa met his gaze and smiled, grimly.

“Yes,” the Christmas Santa continued, “Even the Halloween Santa is here to work together for the sake of Christmas. We must all work together to bring the magic back. I have spoken to the dominant spirits of the seasons, and have received pledges of assistance from the St. Patrick’s Day Leprechaun and the Hallmark CEO come St. Patrick’s Day and Valentine’s Day as compensation. We are still in talks with the Chinese Dragon and the Tree. Some will be compensated, but some will not. Now is not the time to bicker over fairness. Now is the time to save Christmas!”

Santa Valentine stepped forward. He was a true figure of dismay. Emaciated, with that hollow look only a Santa who had seen his holiday taken from him could understand. “I am with you, Christmas.” He croaked, “I am not strong, but I will do what I can. We all will.”

“Yes!” many of the Santas cried in unison. There were pledges of action and loyalty, with much toasting and hurrahs to go around.

Santa Claus smiled at them in his mighty beaming way. “Well, let’s go. To the North Pole. We’ve got work to do.” Fur clad demigods of the Holidays poured out of the hall, to a cavalry of reindeer drawn sleds.

As they made their way out, The Thanksgiving Santa pulled the Santa of Belated Birthdays aside. “What do you think of all this my friend?”

“I think it’s good for him to address us all again, and it’s a good cause. Better late than never, I say.”

“I say he’s weak. He wouldn’t call on us if his power weren’t fading.”

“But surely we need to keep Christmas strong?”

“Yes. Surely. But there shall be a price.”

“What are you planning?”

“Me? I’m planning on bringing little boys and girls presents for Christmas,” The Thanksgiving Santa smiled, slowly stroking his gobbler, “But let’s just say there might not be Carols playing the day after Halloween next year.”

--Dan Kilian

Death To Everyone

Heroes of a Lesser Power # 46

Friday, December 18, 2009


The fox in the henhouse must pause to calculate:  kill them all and eat at leisure, or eat as many as possible before the caretaker comes.  If there are less than seven, there is barely a hesitation; they are all dead before a significant cry can be raised.  If there are twelve, it may be more profitable to eat three or four while the others squawk -- otherwise the seemingly prudent killings would be cut short by the arrival of those who would object.

In a henhouse of thousands the calculus is altogether different.  The shrieks and squalls of the living are ignored by their caretakers.  A fox may feast as it pleases.  The farmer assumes that some chickens will be lost, and this is accounted for and accepted.

--Steve Kilian

Listening to Sunn O)))

The Human Fly

Thursday, December 17, 2009

The Ks Tonight

Thursday, December 17 10:00 p.m. The Ks play

Arlene's Grocery

95 Stanton (between Orchard and Ludlow)

Take the f to the 2nd Avenue stop.

It's a block South of Houston.

This show is called “4 out of 5 dentists.”

--Dan Kilian

Signs We’re In A New Depression

Movie Script Treatment #129*

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Solstice Joke

A bull is spotted running down Times Square. People are puzzled to see this beast in an urban environment. More puzzling, many of the witnesses think it’s a horse. Some can’t tell whether it’s a horse or a cow. A policeman goes to investigate, but the animal can’t be found, and the police officer can’t even tell if the beast is horse or cow. Fortunately, an astrologer comes up to explain what the problem is.

“Don’t you see that it’s December 21st?” says the astrologer.

“So, what does that mean?” says the police officer.

“Well,” beams the astrologer, “that’s the date of this year’s winter equine ox!”

--Dan Kilian

Editor's note: I am so very sorry. It was either this or some discussion of the continuing Health Care debacle, and I just can't.

Little Known Facts about Lincoln

Tips for landing a job

Monday, December 14, 2009

Sorvious: The K Word

K word of the day:


The condition of feeling both sorry and envious of a person.

I felt sorvious of the celebrity for the scandals unfolding and the debauched lifestyle he was able to maintain for however long it lasted.

--Dan Kilian

From Space to Destroy


Friday, December 11, 2009

I Sell Sea Shells

For you it is a tongue twister; for me it is a tragedy.

For I am the woman who sells the sea shells. That I have ended up here, by the sea shore, has seemed like a series of choices, but I now realize that it is destiny. Who really needs to buy shells, when the ocean brings them in by the dozen?

If I could live at the strip of stores by the sea shore, then I could polish my wares, shellac them into an unnatural state, ready for desk-tops and gift boxes. But my "choices" compel me to simply stay by the sea shore, the wind hissing in my ears.

I march up and down the beach, picking up the choicest shells, plucking the seaweed, wiping off the brine, lowering my prices.

They say there's a recession going on. I wouldn't know. I work in a recession proof industry; sales are always bad.

Perhaps I should give the shells away, and live off charity. I could use a new business model. But I can't help but feel my work is worth some compensation. I feel compelled to sell.

Children collect their buckets filled with hole ridden conch shells, periwinkles choking in the air and shiny rocks already losing their luster on the way to the family station wagon. They don't have the perception to appreciate a truly good find, a perfect unblemished shell. I do, and surely some others. Won't you buy? Won't you buy a fine sea shell?

I sell sea shells by the sea shore.

--Dan Kilian

Staten Island Chuck

Garfield Minus Garfield

Wednesday, December 9, 2009


The medic gave us each a dose and a half of peace before the briefing.  We marched into the room, crisp as a crease, took our seats, and waited for seventeen minutes until the officer came in.  By then we were attentive, alert, and above all calm.  The markerboard at the head of room nearly vibrated under the precision of our observation, haloed with a faint bluish light.

This was a normal byproduct of the enhancement medication.  It was nothing to worry about, and we weren’t capable of worrying even if it had been.  We stood and saluted in unison.

The captain was a woman, five foot four, recently promoted.  The new stitching on her rank insignia reflected light slightly differently than her campaign patches.  It was the sort of thing that peace allowed you to notice.  There had been heavy attrition in the command and control sectors from insurgents so new officers were common.  Her pupils strobed as she surveyed the room; she was at peace as well.  “As you were,” she said, returning the salute.

It would have been redundant to tell us to be at ease.  With the extra half dose the average soldier wouldn’t flinch if someone threaded a garden hose up his ass.  When the effect peaked the same soldier could recite the manual of small arms maintenance while sawing off his right foot.  We took our seats.

The briefing began with a series of slides of the insertion zone and target area.  We were silent as we memorized the photographs and plan schematics, the officer commenting on points of interest and probable enemy troop vectors.  A corporal raised his hand to ask a question.  The crescents of his fingernails were going grey; he’d survived a gas attack and had been rotated back into action the week before.  His name was Carson.

“Have any supplies been pre-inserted into the strike area?” Carson asked, his tone even and patient.  It was a fascinating question, as any question would be at that moment.  We patiently waited for the response.

The captain smiled.  “Negative,” she said, her voice almost a sigh.  “Due to unavoidable disruption of logistics systems, pre-insertion was not possible.  Additionally, there will be modifications to your equipment for this mission.”

We beamed at her, drinking in this information.  Her lips were glossy from lip balm.  She continued, “You will be limited to thirty seven rounds of rifle ammunition per infantryman.”   Our ecstasy at this was tempered only with the exactness of our attention.  “In addition to ten rounds for squad leaders’ sidearms.  Firing will be limited to three-round bursts.”  We were rapt.

“You depart in nine minutes.”  It was a song.  “Hu-ah,” she breathed.

We responded in unison:  “Hu-ah.”

Fourteen minutes later we were down the ropes and on the ground.

Carson was hit first.  He triggered a proximity mine and was thrown forward, flipping end over end before landing twenty meters in front of me.  I dropped and waited for insurgent fire.  It took several seconds to come.  A standard tactic was to use mines as a detection perimeter, concentrating fire on anything that triggered them.

I ranged back on the tracers and acquired two targets.  I brought the first up on my scope and squeezed off a burst.  I got two hits to the chest and the target was neutralized.  I switched over to the second just as he acquired me.  A warning tone rang in my headset.  I squeezed off before scoping in order to drive him into cover.  By the time he reacquired me I had him scoped and put three in his head.

Carson’s voice came over the headset.  He was near to peaking, so his enthusiasm bled through in his voice.  “I have been immobilized, but I can serve as a comm relay for rear activities!”  I advanced in a crawl to his position.  Both legs were gone above the knee, but he had applied wound foam and appeared to be stable.

“I am unable to continue!  Take my ammunition!”  He held up two magazines.  “If you leave me your pistol I will be able to commit suicide in the event of capture!”  I handed him my pistol.  “Hu-ah!”

“Hu-ah!” I said, and continued on at a sprint to reestablish my position in the line.

--Steve Kilian

The Polar Turtle

Mr. Bingles

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

No Other Place

He watched them from behind the curtain. His fearsome avatar, the billowing smoke the explosions, all were having their effect. But the young girl, while afraid, wasn’t backing down. Then the dog found him. He really should have had the engineers design the control station at a greater remove. He wheedled some distracting diversion, but he was caught.

Really it was a relief for the farce to be over. He confessed the fraud readily, explained the bizarre hoax he’d perpetrated. The fearsome image he’d projected to dominate the land was unraveling, and he didn’t care. It felt good, liberating for himself. He would be the first free citizen.

They’d come to him with needs and he had nothing. Yet somehow in the glow of confession, he saw them for who they truly were. They were just as confused as he was. They were searching for things they already had. They didn’t suffer from loss, they suffered from low self esteem. All except the girl. She was the only actualized person in the room, but fortunately, she had dumb luck on her side, and he was the only one to recognize it.

A few speeches and a few props of state and he’d bucked up the others. He passed out medals, diplomas, and some novelty gew-gaw he had lying around in his junk drawer. This was easy! Once he got going, it was easy. Only the dog didn’t need anything, and he was sure there were some scraps of meat around if it did. The same razzle-dazzle he’d used to inspire fear now inspired gratitude and uplift. He wasn’t a fraud. He’d merely misdirected his talents.

And the girl. She was the only one whose needs he couldn’t meet with a quick speech and a prop. She needed to go home. She’d either become a refugee or a queen, if she didn’t have those slippers. She had more magic on her feet than he’d ever had in his entire body, but she didn’t have the knowledge. He knew the magic words.

He was no wizard, but he knew a thing or two.

--Dan Kilian

The Miasma

The Critic Masturbates

Monday, December 7, 2009

Out Of The Studio

We laid down 20 songs this weekend. Nothing finished, of course. Billy Burke's third axiom of rock is "Lay down the carpet, then move in the furniture." We've got the carpet, drums and bass down. We've even stuck in a couple chairs to the place.

Working titles "19 Skeletons" and "Surge after Surge" have been rejected. New working title: "Booze, Broads and Sinatra." Soon to be rejected.

I anticipated being really irritated by working long and hard with my band-mates in close quarters, but these guys really worked their asses off, and I have gained a new appreciation for my band-mates. Good bunch of guys.

Like to hear what we've got? Well, you can't.

--Dan Kilian

Editor's note: What the hell, you're thinking? You thought this was a political satire site, with cryptic posts alluding to Dungeons and Dragons? Nope. It's a band's website! The Ks!

Greek Fishermen

Slap My Name On This War by Barack Obama

Friday, December 4, 2009

Studio K

Get ready for the Death Album. Get ready for (working title) 19 Skeletons.

The Ks go into mighty Seizure's Palace this weekend to record their long anticipated follow up to The Ks Can't Get It Together. It's a lovely dungeon  of Rock where some great sounds can be made and some very impressive acts (Deavendra Banhart, Sonic Youth, Maceo Parker, Herbie Hancock) have made great sounds.

Once again the lovely and talented Jason LaFarge will be at the helm, only this time the band is stripped down to 5, the anticipated sound is rawer, spookier and with a shade more reverb. But who knows? We haven't made it yet, and this post is riddled with hype. One thing is sure: we're excited.

Ever since we booked this date I've been pushing the band to learn some new songs. Half our material we've been playing for a couple years, and half we barely know. We're throwing some stuff together. It's going to be a gamble, but I'm hoping for a masterpiece. It's going to be riffier, darker and if all goes well, should sound like Steely Dan meets The Libertines.

Of course we're going to take on a mind-boggling array of styles, and failing brilliantly at them all. Here's just one sound we got from the last album.


More coming...sometime!

--Dan Kilian

He’s Herman Van Rompuy

2012 Minutes of Mayhem

Thursday, December 3, 2009

The Miasma

Ricard's man is puking in his helmet again.  He breaks containment to clear the vomit before anyone can restrain him.  The miasma gets in – of course it gets in – and we have to take him down before he changes.  The Mudejar is closest and puts a scimitar in the small of his back.  That should do it but it's better to be sure, so Kunkel pins him down with his glaive and I pulverize the back of his skull with my mace.

His helmet flies off and I can see where the buds on his neck had already started to form.  It's a relief;  some don't make the change.  Then we would have killed one of our own for nothing.

--Steve Kilian

Twitter vs. Facebook

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

The Dirt on Tiger Woods

So it seems that Tiger Woods was in a car accident or a fight or something. He hasn't wanted to talk about it. There's a lot of speculation that he's got some marriage problems. I'm sorry to hear that.

What? You want more? You shouldn't even know that. What are you, an asshole?

This guy isn't a politician or a morality czar or something. He's a really good golfer. Check back in when he's golfing again.

--Dan Kilian

Heroes of a Lesser Power # 46

I Can’t Get It Together mP3, Words and Chords

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Slap My Name On This War by Barack Obama

My adoring Americans. At least half of you adore me. I’m back over 50 percent so you critics can chew on that. Now, after a lot of deliberation, I’m going to answer the question that has been on the minds of most, if not all Americans. Who was that couple that crashed my party?

I’ll tell you who they were. They were star-effers who wanted to taste the Obama magic! 51 percent! I cannot be stopped! One in ten of you don’t have a job and half of you still love me! By the way, if you are looking for a job, might I suggest the U.S. military? It’s got a great job-placement program, and we’re looking to find some replacements for some employees.

And just to ensure that we keep this jobs-program going with a high rotation, I’m sending 30 thousand soldiers to Afghanistan. I said I would fight this war in the campaign, so stop saying I’m going back on my word. I said Afghanistan was the war to fight and that I didn’t hate all wars. I just said it really quickly so some of you didn’t hear me.

The war I didn’t like was the one you’ve all already forgotten about. You know…whatsitcalled, with the whole Kurds and Shiites and Sunnis thing. Big mess. Well, as far as anyone knows, nothing’s going on over there now, so let’s focus on Afghanistan.

My plan is to simultaneously escalate and end this war. This should please everybody. Hawks who think we have vital interests in these desserts and craggy mountains will be pleased, as well as the Hawks who simply like us to be in as many wars as humanly possible. Doves will like the fact that we are using “benchmarks” and “goals” to get out at some point. I’m also trying to build up the Karzai government, while ensuring that it fight its own corruption. I also want the Taliban to be happy, because we’ve got to get them to flip against their own interests if this thing is going to work. Just to make sure we hit every base, we’re including some anti-abortion language in the implementation of what we’re calling Operation Ramp-Up/Draw-Down. Don’t worry, this is still a military plan that respects a woman’s right to choose.

This plan gives me a great opportunity to create a bi-partisan spirit in Washington. I expect Republicans in Congress to support our larger footprint in Afghanistan. The Democratic leadership vehemently opposes escalating the war, so I expect them to do what anti-war Democratic leaders have always done: roll over and accept whatever we’re doing. Hell, I hate this war too and I’m doing the same thing. Why? Because Presidents who give up on wars don't get reelected.

Also, there's the whole Al-Queda thing. Remember how we're at war with a fundamentalist enemy who will stop at nothing to destroy us? The Republicans sure have. I don't feel a whole lot of rallying around the President going on from these birther-pandering tea-baggers. Damned traitors! How am I going to get them to like me?

30 thousand kids to Afghanistan, that's how.

Thank you and God bless the United States of America, Iraq, Afghanistan, Western Pakistan and Honduras. Oh, and God Bless 51% of the American public too. Good night.

--Leaked from The White House to Dan Kilian

Imagined Conversation with Ray Parker Jr.


Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Greek Fishermen

...snotty masses of oily, fishy mackerel roe, wrapped in a translucent membrane and poached just until it's lukewarm. Then you bite a hole in the side of the eggsac and squeeze it down your throat like frosting from a piping bag. Except it's not frosting. It's fish eggs.

Greek fishermen have this as breakfast before they go out for the day, chasing it with a shot of warm Ouzo. The oldest of them all, now unable to go to sea, squints through the cataract in his one remaining eye and grunts a surly farewell as they push off from shore. He absently scratches the circular scar on his chest, the sucker-mark from so long ago. He drinks more Ouzo and cleans tiny squid all morning, a small revenge.

If you slit open a Greek fisherman all you get is clam muck and a few gold coins, maybe a clay jar -- and these are only rarely filled with oil, let alone wine. Mostly they're just full of more muck. But every once in a while you come across a rusted telescope, an astrolabe stuck at thirty six degrees, a small bronze cannon covered in mussels.

--Steve Kilian


The Tipsy Parson: November 3 2009

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

2012 Minutes of Mayhem

The mighty K’uhul Ajaw called the royal calendar maker into his throne-room.

Great and noble Tsuk! All praises from The God K be upon you! So what’s the deal with these calendars? They only go to 2012. I mean, you know, the Mayan number for that.

All hail the mighty K’uhul! Unfortunately, that’s the year the world ends. Seems that Neutrinos from the sun will mutate, causing the Earth’s center to boil.

Now Tsuk, you know our Mayan technological know-how is hyped way beyond our primitive state, but even to a primitive Indian like me that sounds like utter bullshit. You’re assigning biological changes to cosmic particles. It doesn’t even make sense.

Nonetheless, that’s what’s going to happen. Our Astrological analyses prove beyond a doubt that the Earth shall boil from within, the planet’s crust will shift causing giant volcanoes, earthquakes and tidal waves. The end of the world shall chase a key doughy faced hero of the future in cartoonishly linear fashion! All the landmarks of the world shall crumble in familiar ways!

Well that sounds pretty dumb, but maybe kind of fun?

Oh, it sounds fun, but the lulls! The horrible lulls will be the world’s undoing! When they should be scrambling for their very lives seemingly intelligent people will stop to talk about their dead wives, or domestic fissures, or to bond with their ex-wives boyfriends. People will urge on the end of the world and when it comes, again and again broken by these endless lulls, the monotonous pattern will make all destruction tedious!

That sounds horrible! Will anyone survive?

Unfortunately, yes. Are you sure you don’t want the details of this Apocalypse spoiled?

Why should I care? I’m not going to see this Apocalypse, and from what you’re saying nor should anyone in their right mind wish to see it. Not even if they take the day off from work and are looking to kill a couple hours in the afternoon. Spoil away!

All the leaders of the world will designate survivors, who will flee to some arks built in China.

They’re going to trust the Chinese? Wouldn’t the Chinese betray everyone else to allow more of their loved ones to survive?

It probably has more to do with global distribution of DVDs than realistic geo-political thinking. Evidently this project won’t be very well thought through. No one will anticipate crowds of people trying to get on the arks. One nice scientist will make a speech about helping as many people as possible and the world leaders will be moved as if they hadn’t considered the logistics of this long running project before. They’ll have the foresight to put cameras in gear-shafts, but they won’t consider the moral quandaries of survival.

That’s all so awful and stupid! Is there nothing we can do to stop it? Develop some technology?

Oh, I’m afraid the Mayan empire will have fallen thousands of years before all this.

Well, it’s probably for the best. We’re a lousy society. Great calendars, but all the human sacrifice, it’s barbaric. Is there some way we can warn the empires of the future?

We shall, but no one will heed the warnings. Even worse no one will heed our warnings about the Mayan number for 2009.

What happens then?

A movie will predict the end. So many precious hours of useful life wasted!

Can we warn them?

It will be for naught. Millions will see this dreadfully boring prophesy. Maybe, maybe after the initial onslaught, we can spare a few stragglers who don’t have anything to do some lonely afternoon, or who might consider renting it.

For the sake of those few, we must warn them. Get chiseling.

--Dan Kilian

Avatarred and Feathered

The House of Wrongs

Friday, November 20, 2009

He’s Herman Van Rompuy

He’s Herman Van Rompuy

Belgian Prime Minister

His name might sound jolly

Or it could seem sinister


But whatever effect

His name might inspire

This president elect

Has got hold of the fire


He’s carrying the torch

For a unified Europe

He’s hot like a scorch

And he’s sweet, like syrup


The kind that you pour

On a thick Belgian waffle

Some say the choice is poor

Some say that it’s awful


Some say he’s obscure

Like they haven’t heard of Belgium

I say Tony Blair

Is mere British bubblegum


Van Rompuy’s the man

For this difficult era

His unanimous election

Was not reached in error


He'll do nothing to blemish

His ceremonial post

This Christian Democrat, Flemish

Will make of it the most


His voice shall be heard

He’ll be both strong and thorough

The currency of the world

Will soon be the Euro


So hail Van Rompuy!

Your rise I announce

A name as fun to say

As it’s hard to pronounce


Van Rompuy Van Rompuy

I’ll say it again

The leader for Europeae

And prince among men


--Dan Kilian

Batman vs. The Taliban

Stephen Hawking Contemplates The Void

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Twitter vs. Facebook

I have twice as many Facebook friends as I have Twitter followers. After banging my head against Myspace so I could have as many friends as possible, I've lost the urge to hustle these platforms. I actually seem to know who most of my Facebook friends are. I'm less person oriented on Twitter.  I accumulated followers, mostly strangers, for a while, and now all new followers seem to be porn or How To Market on the Internet oriented.

I only post the "good stuff" on Facebook, stuff I think will be seen as funny. I don't post the filler. I know, dedicated readers of Klog will be shocked that I consider some posts (As opposed to this one) filler.

I stick everything up on Twitter. It's my dumping ground, where everyone is advertising to everyone.

Today I stuck up what I thought was an amusing bit on Facebook --

Avatarred and Feathered: a bunch of fake dialogue from the movie Avatar. I also posted some silliness my brother made -- One Great Wisdom and One Great Truth: some obscene version of Aha's "Take On Me" and some insight into the concept of  "dickballs" --on Twitter.

The Twitter post got more than four times the hits. Now bear in mind, this blog (if you want to call it that. I call it an ever expanding masterpiece)  is on the long, long slender end of the long tail, so the number of hits is so small as to defy easy statistical analysis, but nonetheless the truth seems to be clear. Twitter beats Facebook for self promotion, and hustling strangers beat actual friends.

Now, Twitter doesn't just involve followers. Everything posted gets seen by everybody on Twitter who checks out "Everybody". This doesn't really change the fact that Twitter, based on this loose, accidental experiment seems to be the place to promote your material.

At least if you're not hustling strangers on Facebook.

--Dan (I Don't Really Get Online Networking)Kilian

The Friends of Greta

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Our Greatest Hits, Yolks Semi-Intact

We’ve recently had our 300th post here at Klog, so for a sampling of our greatest hits, we’re breaking it down. This site is purportedly about “Politics, Culture and Abject Nonsense” even though it’s really supposed to be about my band, The Ks it’s really about filling in a new post every weekday, regardless of whether or not we “have something.” Nonetheless, we’re breaking it down by purported categories, with the yolks purportedly intact. Here’s a top ten for Politics, Culture and Abject Nonsense. Enjoy!



Khomeini and Khamenei: A Dialogue

Ayatollah channels Ayatolla, but who’s channeling whom?

Nicey Nice: The Obama Crowley Gates Beer

Remember the Crowley Gates Beer? That would be a good name for a pseudo-micro-brew. Crowleygates.

Mark Twain, Karl Marx, and Socrates: At It Again

Satire doesn’t get any more high-brow than this.

Batman vs. The Taliban

Batman: nation-builder or vigilante run amok?

Terminator: No Salvation

Arnold fights the machine.

Signs We’re In A New Depression

As if you need more.

My Obama Encounter By Jacob Bartelby, Intern to the Department of Health Bureaucracy Department Building 15

Our man Bartelby meets the Baracker up close.

A Nonsensational Speech On the Detainee Abuse Photos by Barack Obama

The kind of speech a president should make, if he’s the President of Iran.

The New Town Hall

Here’s how I’d take on the teabaggers.

The C Word

I'm so glad the Health Care debate is over.

Humanizing Death From Above by MQ1-178

A very self-aware essay.

A Gay Six Way Marriage Celebration

One of these states might be back off the map, but no matter.



The Video: Last Trip To The Well

This is why we do Klog. The band!

Top Trek: A Pan Fiction!

For food geeks and classic geeks.

Project Run For Your Lives

Heidi brings down the Klum.

Here’s What I Was Thinking At 5:30 Today When I Should Have Been Sleeping

If you’re a Neil Diamond fan, or just heard there was once a man with that name.

Why I Listen to Monster Magnet

Why DOES Steve listen to Monster Magnet?

Dropping Science

The science of Rap, and the Rap of science.

The Fascinating Then Curious Then Fairly Blah Case of Benjamin Button


The Great Defeat in Georgia

If you’re a Charlie Daniels fan, or just heard there was once a man with that name.

The Michelangelo Project

You’ve heard of this guy.

White Wedding

Billy Idol, cocaine, heartfelt speeches.

Michael J. Fox’s Bad Day

Michael J. Fox has a bad day.

Team America World Police: I’m Just Saying It’s a Classic

Good movie!

Inconsistencies in the New Star Trek Movie

Good movie!

Abject Nonsense


The Critic Masturbates

I still like this early effort. Warning! Has references to masturbation!

Hard Case

Baby won’t go down easily.

Regarding the Events off of Mayburn Key, July 23rd, 1964

Gilligan’s Island! Shit makes me laugh.

The Putt Putt: World’s Best Mini Golf, Holes 1-9

It’s about mini-golf!


What happens to The Yankees when baseball’s over?

Imagined Conversation with Ray Parker Jr.

Imagine having a conversation with Ray Parker Jr, composer of “Ghostbusters.”

40 Years Ago Today

Mooning the Moon mission.

July 4th, 1777

330 years ago.


Believe it!


Jefferson is evil!

Demon Brand Choco-Mallows

Demon chocolate is evil!


Tuesday, November 17, 2009

New Business Idea

Beat-Off-in-the-Corner Man!

Women spend hundreds of dollars during bachelorette parties to see muscular men prance about half naked, glistening with oil.  After they get all excited from that, they're hungry for more.  However, most women are not ready to take that big step to actually hiring a male prostitute.  But now there is a service that fills the gap between exotic dancer and full-on gigolo.  For a modest fee, interested customers can hire one of our trained staff to masturbate in the corner, achieving full release while they watch (or don't).

The Beat-Off-in-the-Corner Man will also come to (and at) your event, and is an excellent option for bachelorette parties, corporate executive events, bat mitzvahs, holiday parties – you name it.

--Steve Kilian

Project Run For Your Lives

Felix From The Flame

Monday, November 16, 2009

I Can't Get It Together mP3, Words and Chords

can't get it together

G#            C#7              F#                    E  F#  D#7

Got no gas in the tank got no cash in the bank

Got no shiny black shoes can’t keep up with the news

G#    C#7     F#   C#7     G#     C#7     F#     E     2x

Every time I see my mother she cries and tells me I’m a wreck

Every time I see my dad he frowns and rips me off another check

D#7                 E7                                                      1x

Dad what you expect?

A      D7     F      D7     A      D7      F        D7     3x

I can’t get it together (Can’t get it together             doo wah doo wah)

I can’t get it together (Can’t get it together        doo wah doo wah doo

Wah                 doo wah doo wah doo wah)

G#          C#7           F#              E  F#  D#7       2x

I’ve got stains on my shirt and my whole body hurts

Don’t wear no fancy watch everything I want costs too much

G#    C#7     F#   C#7     G#     C#7     F#     E     2x

Every time I see my mother she tells me about her other son

Every time I see that brother of mine he tells me how I could have been someone

D#7                 E7                                                      1x

Instead of what I’ve done

A      D7     F         D7    A     D7   F     D7        13 ½ x

I can’t get it together can’t get it together           doo wah doo wah

I can’t get it together can’t get it together        doo wah doo wah doo

Wah                doo wah doo wah doo wah I haven’t

Written to my one and only friend in over a year we haven’t spoken since

And I can’t get it together I know a

Man with the money and the means as well, and another in the city he’s ready to sell

And I can’t get it together If you’d

Give me a minute I could figure it out there’s all these little bits of ideas floating about

And I can’t get it together Well if you  dblhits

Hadn’t of gone I wouldn’t be this way but it’s the way that I am that drove you away

And I can’t get it I can’t get it I can’t get it I Can’t get it

Together                                               I can’t get it together             doo

wah doo wah doo wah             doo wah doo wah doo wah                  doo

wah doo wah doo waaaaah

I Can’t Get It Together

G#                         C#7              F#                    E  F#  D#7    2x

G#       C#7     F#        C#7          G#       C#7          F#         E          2x

D#7                 E7                    1x

A      D7    F     D7       A         D7       F          D7 3x CHORUS

G#                         C#7              F#                    E  F#  D#7    2x

G#       C#7     F#        C#7          G#       C#7          F#         E          2x

D#7                 E7 1x

A         D7       F                      D7       A         D7       F          D7 13 ½ x

Chorus and out. Double hits on time 10 and 11.

--Dan Kilian, performed by The Ks

Dropping Science


Thursday, November 12, 2009

Heroes of a Lesser Power # 46

They lay together in the afterglow. Then she flopped to her back.

“Shit. I forgot to take out the trash.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it."

He strode naked out of the bedroom. A post-coital man, ready to take out the trash, macho as could be.

“Wait! Your clothes.” They remained in a pile on the floor at the foot of the bed.

He was still euphoric, a little cocky. Maybe he should tell her. No, it was still too soon.

He knotted the garbage bag and lifted it from it’s waste-can. He made his way down the steps to the front door.

“Don’t go out naked! The neighbors…”

“I’m okay.”

He stopped in the foyer, closed his eyes and concentrated. “Pants on!” he whispered.

Immediately he was clothed from the waist down. Red corduroys. For the umpteenth time he wondered how the power chose the pants. Was it random? Or some cosmic commentary he couldn’t glean? Were these someone else’s pants? They seemed clean.

All this raced through his mind as he took out the trash. He would shed the pants back in the kitchen and they would be gone when they came out again.

He told her he’d thrown a towel around himself. She’d looked at him funny, but why should she disbelieve him? He should have just come back for his regular pants, but he’d been feeling good, and didn’t want to disrupt his flow. They settled back into bed, the woman, the man, and his secret.

--Dan Kilian

Wednesday, November 11, 2009


Deliver Us From Deliverers, For The Sake of the Unborn

By Bishop Ramon Clement

bishop danWe all know that abortion is controversial. As a Pro-Life Catholic Bishop, I urge people to consider the rights of the unborn. Still, I know that people disagree, and that’s a reality of life in a democracy. While the debate rages on about the legalization of infanticide, can’t we as members of a democracy respect the half of America who feel a holocaust is occurring, and not use federal dollars to fund abortions?

Since 1979 something called the Hyde Amendment has prevented Federal dollars from funding abortions. Now with the health care plan being proposed, Federal money would subsidize those who aren’t in poverty, but who need financial help in paying for their mandatory health insurance. Since there’s a free range of Insurance plans in the marketplace, and since many of them offer abortion services, subsidizing the working lower class creates the possibility that someone getting federal money would use it to subsidize their purchase of an abortion. To keep our tax dollars from funding what so many believe to be the mass murder of infants, I don’t think it’s too difficult a fix to do what the Stupak-Pitts amendment did in the recent House vote on Healthcare: deny access to the insurance plans that cover abortion procedures. Also, we need to abolish the Post Office.

The Post Office is a federally funded entity, providing tens of thousands of jobs. It’s just a statistical fact that some of those jobs go to women, and that some of those women will get pregnant and consider having abortions, and we just can’t have tax dollars going to the murder of unborn children.

I guess the Departments of Education, the Highway program, and any agricultural subsidies will have to go too. They’re all just backdoor abortion programs. Guess we have to get rid of the military as well. The brave men and women who defend this land include women who defend this land, draw paychecks, get pregnant and consider abortions. Also, you might not know it, but the Catholic Church is opposed to war as well, just not as much as abortion. I don’t know why, I guess babies are just cuter than full grown men, women and children. Anyway, we’d better cut funding for these wars. They’ll just end and then when the soldiers come home they’ll get pregnant and then, tax dollars for abortions. It’s just not right.

We’ll still have Medicare and Social Security; old people can’t get pregnant. You might think it’s Draconian, but for the sake of Life, the rest of the government has got to go. Too much temptation, too many taxpayer dollars going to people who might make the wrong decisions. Of course, once we’ve purged the Federal Government of potential abortion funding, we ought to dismantle the Capitalist system itself, so no one has the means to snuff out an unborn’s soul. Usury is a sin too, you know. We’ll have to go to some sort of primitive goods-exchange system, but we’ll have to monitor it closely so no one provides an abortion for some animal hides. Perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself; let’s take things one step at a time.

Again, this is a democracy. If we’re going to be able to control who gets access to abortions without actually making it illegal, it’s going to take some sacrifice from everybody.

--Bishop Ramon Clement as transcribed onto gold leaf by Dan Kilian

Afghanistan in 60 Seconds

The Hall of IP

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Imagined Conversation with Ray Parker Jr.

Mr. Parker! Thanks for the songs, man. Sorry about saying “man.” That’s really dorky.  Thanks. You’re a good sport.

Oh I guess I’m like most people. It’s “Ghostbusters” for me. Great movie. Great song. I hope you’re not sick of it. Good! You’re right!

I’m Dan. Pleased to meet you. Pleased to meet you. Pleased to meet you, Rochelle. Great party!

Nice girls. I’m not busting things up? No, right, you probably could. You probably could.

Look, I’m sorry I said “busting” just then. Probably just got that word in my head because…you know…

Right! Right. Cool! Busting makes me feel good too! Fuck yeah! Bustin’!

You know, fuck Huey Lewis. How dare he sue you over that song? Over a riff? One God-damn riff? The song is about busting ghosts. That’s what the song is. Has Huey Lewis ever busted a ghost in his God-damned life? I mean, there’s some old bluesman who played that riff sixty years ago who thinks you both ripped him off, and he ripped off someone who played it a hundred years ago. The key is…Ghostbusters! That’s what the song is! Huey Lewis. I’ll give him a new drug.

No no. I don’t have anything. I was just making a reference to Huey Lewis. Like anyone remembers. No. Not for me. Makes me edgy. Edgy and seriously addicted. You funk guys, you’re unstoppable.

Yeah yeah. I don’t know what we’re gonna do in Afghanistan.

I ain’t afraid of no Al-Queda! It doesn’t really roll off the tongue, does it? You’ll think of something. I think that’s a great idea.

No, no, It’s be…it’d be an honor!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

All right, I’ve got to…okay! Okay!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

Spectacular! SPECTACULAR! Hey, I’m hitting it. I’ll see you.

Busting makes me feel good too.

No, I’ve got to…

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

To be continued…

--Dan Kilian

Healthy To The Max

Awkward Conversation Near the Breakfast Buffet at The U.N.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Dad Dream

I am in the front yard of my parents house and I’m most surprised to see my Dad come home from work, as he’s been dead for almost three years. He’s really my Dad, but he’s being played by a seventies character actor. I thought it might be James Brolin or Warren Oates, but it’s someone else, a lesser known actor. I stop him on the front steps and ask him how he’s doing and he mutters darkly about how they’re treating him at work. I say “Well, you’re home now. Go inside and take off your shoes.”

We have a large feast in our backyard with the whole family and neighbors in attendance. A blond fellow playing some sort of mandolin starts singing a song I immediately recognize to be a ghost dispelling song. It’s a very sweet song, meant to remind the dead that they are gone.

I leap to my feet.

“He’s trying to make Dad go away!” I shout to my brothers.

Dad runs down a hill and the family follows after. They scramble all over the place.

I catch my dad and hold onto him. He’s now my actual Dad, only his eyes have sealed shut and he’s withered and confused. “He’s trying to tell me I’m a ghost!” he shouts.

“That’s because you are. We were most surprised…” I note the arch tone of that “most surprised” phrasing. I also notice my own dramatic turnaround from defense and denial to acceptance. “We were most surprised when you showed up today and…”

I wake.

--Dan Kilian

Why I Listen to Monster Magnet


Friday, November 6, 2009

The Tipsy Parson: November 3 2009

Nancy and I went to The Tipsy Parson last night.  We showed up at about 8:00 with no reservations, and it was packed.  The hostess (whom we recognized as the waitress who served us drinks one Friday afternoon at Little Giant on the Lower East Side, and who reminds me of Catherine Keener) told us that a bunch of people had bailed when faced with an hour and forty-five minute wait, so that we could be seated in about fifteen minutes.  We decided to sit on the bench in the bay window and have a drink while we waited.

Here some problems arose.  The waitress took about seven minutes to get our drink order – but again, they were slammed, and she was very pleasant.  They were out of one of three reds and one of three whites by the glass, but the Syrah that Nancy picked was perfectly serviceable.  I picked a Lighthouse Ale draft beer, and it was fairly characterless.  Since they only have a few beers on tap I felt it was a weird selection to include.  I'm not sure if free drinks while one waits to be seated is a policy (which would be a welcome madness) or oversight, but neither drink showed up on our final tab, so all was ultimately forgiven.

Once seated we were given both the dinner and the bar-snack menu, which was an appreciated broadening of the options.  Eventually we decided to keep it to three courses and skipped the bar snacks (cheeses and cured meats, various interesting-sounding fried items, pickled peppers and the like).  Some chive rolls came around, which were quite good and rich, so they did not need butter, but it would have been a nice gesture to offer something to spread on them.

Nancy chose the parsnip soup as her appetizer while I chose a celeriac salad with apples and watercress.  The salad was light, bright, and well-proportioned (as compared to the mayonnaise-heavy dollop of celeriac that I was served at Craft, for example), but not something that a home-cook couldn't produce with some patient knife-work and a green goddess dressing recipe.  Still, a more than decent salad.

Nancy's soup, on the other hand, was a star.  The smooth parsnip and cream (I assume) puree was topped with strips of fried parsnip, house-made maraschino cherries, a drizzle of sorghum syrup, and a few strips of an innocuous herb (chiffonaded parsley?).  The cherries had a background sourness and the fried parsnip just a bit of bitterness which, along with its crunch, set off the parsnip quite well.  This soup would be a great starter for Thanksgiving dinner.

Meanwhile, the drink I had ordered – an "apple blossom", consisting of apple vodka, apple cider, lemon, and orange blossom water – had yet to arrive.  The waitress explained that there had been a problem with its creation, and that one would be out shortly.  Eventually it arrived, a pale brown liquid on ice with a slice of apple sitting on top.  At first taste it reminded me of sour mix from the gun.  This changed over the course of the drink, so that at the end the drink I was getting not-too-subtle hints of grape Kool-Aid.  Nancy found it revolting at each stage, and though I appreciated the changing character of the drink over time, it would have been better for it to change from good flavor to good flavor, instead of nasty to nastier.  To top it off a second hostess brought me a second one that I hadn't ordered – no doubt the first incarnation that had gone awry.  I summoned my courage and plowed through it in short order.  This second drink also didn't show up on the bill, so it was hard to get too angry.

The main dishes arrived.  Nancy had chosen a strip steak with butter-fried sage and cheese grits while I had the pork hock.  The pork hock was fairly massive, about six inches long, and was lacquered with some sort of syrup and studded with dried fruit – I'd bet cherries and prunes -- and was surrounded with a tart apple sauce.  The meat sloughed off of the bone at first touch, which was nice, and was indeed tender -- what I could taste of it.  The heavy sweetness of the glaze and the fruit left me wanting a little more porkiness to my pork.  Even the tartness of the applesauce faded as it mixed with a pool of brown liquid under the hock (more sorghum?).  Eventually the dish became too cloying and I decided to save the rest for later.

Nancy's strip steak was comparatively simple.  I was a bit surprised by her order since I had cooked strip steak the night before (with caramelized cippollini onions and a red wine-pomegranate syrup, so a different approach altogether), but the list of entrees is fairly short, so there weren't too many other options.  Also it was her birthday, and if the girl wants steak two nights in a row she can go ahead and have steak.  To my chagrin the steak was prepared more expertly than mine had been, and I suspect that they didn't pick up the meat from Western Beef, as the meaty flavor that came through was much better.  The butter-fried sage wasn't overpowering, and the cheese-grits were as one would expect, so the beef remained the center of the dish.  Pretty good.

Early into the entrees we had been told that the side dish of Brussels sprouts with sorghum (again) and pecans that we'd ordered would be coming up shortly.  I was about done when they finally showed up, which was a bit disappointing.  But this being the fifth day that they were open, I was willing to forgive.  But then I tasted some of the tiny sprouts, which ranged in size from a pencil eraser to a standard marble.  The sprouts were scorched on the exterior and raw on the interior, and the pecans were completely subsumed by the sweetness of the syrup.  So I ended up tasting a battle of sweet syrup vs. bitter scorch, and almost nothing in the way of Brussels sprouts.

At this point I said to Nancy that they would lose a star for overly masking the base flavors of their dishes.

When time for dessert came around we opted for the Tipsy Parson, a rum-soaked sponge cake with more of the house-made maraschino cherries, toasted almonds, and a sweet cream sauce on top.  The first few spoonfuls were tasty, but the lack of noticeable rum flavor soon grew troubling, and by the end the sweetness overpowered all.  I don't think the chocolate bread pudding with toasted marshmallows or the pecan pie would have been any less sweet.  And since I'd been fighting an overly-sweet entrĂ©e, an overly sweet side, and two grape Kool-Aids, something less tooth-achingly sugary would have served me better.  Hopefully Nancy's experience was more pleasant, coming off of steak and wine.

When the bill came around and three of our drinks didn't show up my mood was lifted.  Everyone had been pleasant, and the people who had come in just behind us had to wait a good forty five minutes for a seat, so we felt some sense of privilege at having waltzed in and gotten a table so quickly (Nancy felt that Ms. Keener had helped us along).

I'll give it one more shot, perhaps taking a sampling of the bar snacks and reading the fine print on the menu more carefully to avoid a sugar overload.

--Steve Kilian

Top Trek: A Pan Fiction!

Obama Health Care Speech

Thursday, November 5, 2009



Afterward, in the locker room, it began to hit them.  Sure, there would be a week or so of indulgence – Jeter with his women, A-Rod with the cocaine, Pettite with his prayer group, and so on – but this would be a transient thing.  At that moment, as they changed out of their champagne-soaked pinstripes and readied for the human pleasures that awaited, they exchanged silent glances of recognition. They were part of something larger than any one individual.

After a few days they would start to trickle back into the clubhouse.  They would resume training, even though it could wait two or three months.  For no reason they'd toss balls around the infield, shag flies, and run sprints.   They would simply want to be together, for something that so few players, so few people on the planet, could share.

All but one.

After stripping down naked, Rivera walked to his door between the showers and the exit.  The team clapped him on his back, one by one calling out their congratulations and thanks.  The door hissed open, letting slip a pool of fog and some bluish light.  Rivera entered the chamber and began hooking up the connections.  The team gathered around as the automatic systems took over, inserting tubes into Rivera's spine and between his buttocks, up his nose and into his armpits.  A fine titanium needle began uploading new routines to his cortex.  In a few moments he would lose consciousness, and the players were bidding him farewell.  Already the sound was fading, so all he could hear was his heartbeat's unchanging rhythm.
Just before he slipped away, Rivera said, "Good season."

And then he was gone.

--Steve Kilian

Sweet Boroughs

Ominouse Orange