Double Flee A
Sunday
harmful to minors? maybe we should let the minors figure it out. this sixteen year-old did.
Saturday
local6.com - News - Man Dies After Lying In Yard For Days Refusing Help
He kept it real till the end.
He kept it real till the end.
Well, chicks and dudes, another day has come and gone. Dale's got a cold and is coughing stuff up that he's pretty sure he last saw in fourth grade. My cable company went and got itself all high-tech when I wasn't watching. They cut off my cable, I paid them over the phone, and it was back on, all in the space of ten minutes.
Bowling tomorrow at Elsie's if you want to come. Better show up by eight or nine if you want a lane before midnight.
Bowling tomorrow at Elsie's if you want to come. Better show up by eight or nine if you want a lane before midnight.
Thursday
It's pizza day for the rest of the staff here. Free lunch and a nice, snoozy seminar. But for me, I'm not going. I start between shifts, so I'm covering the pharmacy while this happens. The pharmacist/manager who thinks she's a disciplinarian brought pizza for the pharmacist that's covering for her. She was like "I just felt so bad you were being left out!" She brought her a selection of different pizza types. Never occurred to her that I too am missing out on pizza. I don't care about teh pizza as much as everyone ignoring I'm a human being. I'm seen as very "less than" around here, and it's not just my imagination. I hate that lady.
There are different reasons for telling stories.
Sometimes you tell stories because "hey, look how awesome I am because I did this", sometimes it's like a fable. Sometimes you just have to make sure that you're not going crazy. You have to tell a certain story because you doubt that it was possible that it happened.
This morning I woke to the second-craziest song I've ever heard on the radio. The craziest one was yesterday. Yesterday it was a guy playing the acoustic guitar, singing about the mystical nature of water. The closing line to the song which I had slowly been waking up to (unsure if it was sleep doing this weird shit to me) was a children's-story-on-tape-earnest-delivery of the line: "there's magic in that kitchen sink." I looked over at the radio -- "what the fuck...?" -- like I expected to see something else in its place. Something a little closer, scarier and more herbal. I don't know if you're familiar with my kitchen sink, but it's full of dishes pretty much of the time. Today it was really weird too, but it didn't stick like yesterday's and the people at the station can't tell me what it was because of pledge drive.
When I was a kid the "morning funny" would come on the car radio on the way to school in the cold, and they had about four or five songs they'd rotate. My favorite one went like this:
Oh how I hate to wake up in the morning
Just look at all the things you have to do
[can't remember] new day dawning
you should have turned that rooster into stew
it's time to resurrect you living dead ones
[can't remember] from your semi-conscious state
cause no matter how you're feeling in the morning time
by five o'clock tonight you'll be just great
Another one they played a lot was "the day the squirrel went berserk" by Lee Greenwood.
Is a silly song a good way to wake up? Are there different ways to wake up that are good? Waking up for me takes a good two or three minutes, and if there is noise in that time my reaction can be anywhere from jangled nerves to confused stupor. The answer to this question may be process-of-elimination-friendly, as in, the wrong ways to wake up are these, and I speak from experience: top 40 radio, smash mouth's "you're an all star", a skipping cd, a cocktail party, a screaming woman, a honking horn outside, roofers above your head slamming away, the demolition of a gas station across the street, telemarketers, the world trade center disaster (for me a frantic phone call, "David, America's being attacked!"), tubulence and the seatbelt sign beeping on (the famous musical "oh, shit" "-BOUNG-"), aphex twin, Doctor Laura's radio show, or bagpipe music. I can imagine a bear attack is up there, too, but that hasn't been my misfortune yet.
Silly songs just don't figure in the same way as those others, though, do they? This is a question for the ages if I've ever heard one. I guess if one had to pick one wake-up for the rest of one's life, I'd choose gently crashing waves, and I don't mean the ones on a cd with a hippie playing a sitar or a flute over the top of it "pure moods" style. I mean real waves, created by a real ocean, just outside the window there. We're walking around with the salinity of the sea literally in our blood, (0.9 percent saline solution is isotonic) and smelling that in the morning is physiologically reassuring as well as pleasant to hear.
Speaking of the ocean, I've got to plan a vacation for my brothers and I in May to the outer banks. We're planning to invent the airplane, but with more beer and less airplane.
Sometimes you tell stories because "hey, look how awesome I am because I did this", sometimes it's like a fable. Sometimes you just have to make sure that you're not going crazy. You have to tell a certain story because you doubt that it was possible that it happened.
This morning I woke to the second-craziest song I've ever heard on the radio. The craziest one was yesterday. Yesterday it was a guy playing the acoustic guitar, singing about the mystical nature of water. The closing line to the song which I had slowly been waking up to (unsure if it was sleep doing this weird shit to me) was a children's-story-on-tape-earnest-delivery of the line: "there's magic in that kitchen sink." I looked over at the radio -- "what the fuck...?" -- like I expected to see something else in its place. Something a little closer, scarier and more herbal. I don't know if you're familiar with my kitchen sink, but it's full of dishes pretty much of the time. Today it was really weird too, but it didn't stick like yesterday's and the people at the station can't tell me what it was because of pledge drive.
When I was a kid the "morning funny" would come on the car radio on the way to school in the cold, and they had about four or five songs they'd rotate. My favorite one went like this:
Oh how I hate to wake up in the morning
Just look at all the things you have to do
[can't remember] new day dawning
you should have turned that rooster into stew
it's time to resurrect you living dead ones
[can't remember] from your semi-conscious state
cause no matter how you're feeling in the morning time
by five o'clock tonight you'll be just great
Another one they played a lot was "the day the squirrel went berserk" by Lee Greenwood.
Is a silly song a good way to wake up? Are there different ways to wake up that are good? Waking up for me takes a good two or three minutes, and if there is noise in that time my reaction can be anywhere from jangled nerves to confused stupor. The answer to this question may be process-of-elimination-friendly, as in, the wrong ways to wake up are these, and I speak from experience: top 40 radio, smash mouth's "you're an all star", a skipping cd, a cocktail party, a screaming woman, a honking horn outside, roofers above your head slamming away, the demolition of a gas station across the street, telemarketers, the world trade center disaster (for me a frantic phone call, "David, America's being attacked!"), tubulence and the seatbelt sign beeping on (the famous musical "oh, shit" "-BOUNG-"), aphex twin, Doctor Laura's radio show, or bagpipe music. I can imagine a bear attack is up there, too, but that hasn't been my misfortune yet.
Silly songs just don't figure in the same way as those others, though, do they? This is a question for the ages if I've ever heard one. I guess if one had to pick one wake-up for the rest of one's life, I'd choose gently crashing waves, and I don't mean the ones on a cd with a hippie playing a sitar or a flute over the top of it "pure moods" style. I mean real waves, created by a real ocean, just outside the window there. We're walking around with the salinity of the sea literally in our blood, (0.9 percent saline solution is isotonic) and smelling that in the morning is physiologically reassuring as well as pleasant to hear.
Speaking of the ocean, I've got to plan a vacation for my brothers and I in May to the outer banks. We're planning to invent the airplane, but with more beer and less airplane.
Wednesday
Ocracoke Village, Ocracoke Island - On The Outer Banks Of North Carolina - Also Corolla, Duck, Southern Shores, Kitty Hawk, Kill Devil Hills, Nags Head, Hatteras Island (Rodanthe, Avon, Waves, Salvo, Buxton) Manteo, Wanchese an
Public Campaign Action Fund
Vote for your favorite name for the secret category of Bush’s Super-Mega-Fundraisers!
Vote for your favorite name for the secret category of Bush’s Super-Mega-Fundraisers!
the jesus chainsaw massacre, coming to a theater near you and all the other philistines.
Some time during your life, someone will ask if they can help you, and by their inflection you will know they intend to do nothing of the sort. I recommend you do what I did. Look them in the eye, gather all your strength into the biggest smile of all time, and ask, "Well what did you have in mind?" Talk about taking the wind out of sails. The woman that did that to me was pretty embarrassed after that.
I'm sick from work today. I've got chest congestion and body aches. This decision was made at three o'clock this morning. I hate missing work, it makes me feel useless.
Tuesday
That MN physicians for life flyer is back again. I'm doing something about it this time.
hopelessly subjective, circular arguments called
EDUCATIONAL FACTS FROM MN PHYSICIANS FOR LIFE
which I am sick of
“1. Every person who has had an abortion, always has been and always will be a priceless and precious person, as is everyone else.”
How sweet. If we’re all so precious why bring it up? You brazenly imply there are people out there who don’t hold human life to be remotely valuable, which is ludicrous. Keep your bible out of my face and stop trying to pass this turkey off at my hospital. Maybe the person reading this will have a change of heart, more likely though, they’ll have a turn of stomach.
“2. The abortion issue is not necessarily a religious issue. An atheist and an evolutionist might desire the protection of human life, out of respect for the evolutionary process which has brought human life to the complex stage that we are at now.”
For the second time, you have estimated the intelligence of your reader to be zero. “An evolutionist might desire...” News flash: if there were no institutions ramming a paternalistic, imaginary egomaniac called god down people’s throats from the moment they were born, you wouldn’t call people atheists or evolutionists. They’d just be called realistic. And “MIGHT”? You do a disservice to all jackasses. Nice try, though. It’s important when your argument is as mawkish and simpering as yours is to make your own opinions look more mainstream than they are, and therefore to marginalize your opponent whenever possible. Keep your religious tracts out of my hospital, “Dr. Paul Dickinson M.D. J.D.”, and stop calling them educational. Your flyers are about persuasion and I come here to work, not be preached to.
Predictably, the flyer goes on to “educate” one about human life beginning at conception. People go to the doctor because doctors are objective problem solvers, and if these things have the effect on anyone I am afraid they will, we’re going to have a lot of patients running around scared that our doctors are into a bunch of hocus-pocus.
That's what I printed off some copies of. There are boldface and type size distinctions that don't come through, but I think I get the point across. Even if the person I want to read never does, someone picking it up will have a giggle and consider that their world is a little more balanced than they did before.
hopelessly subjective, circular arguments called
EDUCATIONAL FACTS FROM MN PHYSICIANS FOR LIFE
which I am sick of
“1. Every person who has had an abortion, always has been and always will be a priceless and precious person, as is everyone else.”
How sweet. If we’re all so precious why bring it up? You brazenly imply there are people out there who don’t hold human life to be remotely valuable, which is ludicrous. Keep your bible out of my face and stop trying to pass this turkey off at my hospital. Maybe the person reading this will have a change of heart, more likely though, they’ll have a turn of stomach.
“2. The abortion issue is not necessarily a religious issue. An atheist and an evolutionist might desire the protection of human life, out of respect for the evolutionary process which has brought human life to the complex stage that we are at now.”
For the second time, you have estimated the intelligence of your reader to be zero. “An evolutionist might desire...” News flash: if there were no institutions ramming a paternalistic, imaginary egomaniac called god down people’s throats from the moment they were born, you wouldn’t call people atheists or evolutionists. They’d just be called realistic. And “MIGHT”? You do a disservice to all jackasses. Nice try, though. It’s important when your argument is as mawkish and simpering as yours is to make your own opinions look more mainstream than they are, and therefore to marginalize your opponent whenever possible. Keep your religious tracts out of my hospital, “Dr. Paul Dickinson M.D. J.D.”, and stop calling them educational. Your flyers are about persuasion and I come here to work, not be preached to.
Predictably, the flyer goes on to “educate” one about human life beginning at conception. People go to the doctor because doctors are objective problem solvers, and if these things have the effect on anyone I am afraid they will, we’re going to have a lot of patients running around scared that our doctors are into a bunch of hocus-pocus.
That's what I printed off some copies of. There are boldface and type size distinctions that don't come through, but I think I get the point across. Even if the person I want to read never does, someone picking it up will have a giggle and consider that their world is a little more balanced than they did before.
I work with an indian lady named Uma. Her real name is really long, like Umasatarayanrian or something. She's very short, fairly old, frequently has stinky gas, and has some big ol' feet. I get the feeling that she could really scrap if push came to shove. She's got that crazy look in her eye. She'd make the ultimate unconventional superhero. Her ability to stare down a bad guy until he said he was sorry and gave the orphanage back all their money, her ability to confuse anyone with her poor english, shit, she's perfect.
YellowTimes.org - "Religion and politics: Are they inextricably intertwined?"
I'm putting this here to read later.
I'm putting this here to read later.
Monday
I just found a nice function. Hitting control and backspace at the same time erases whole words at a time. That's like getting a WHOLE DOLLAR every day!
This field of light bulbs powered by invisible energy from overhead cables was “planted” near Bath, Somerset, to show the peril of living near pylons.
America's king of suds
"Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day; teach a man to fish, and he'll sit around drinking beer all day."
"Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day; teach a man to fish, and he'll sit around drinking beer all day."
Sunday
Frogstar WAV archive
There's someone I work with about whom I can only imagine it is seldom said, "what a nice guy".
He likes to shout you down and leave. He should have his own cable news show. Cable news shows are watched by people who love the sensationalism of news. That's all the shows are. There are enough of those people to constitute a formidable maket force. That is sad, sad, sad, because the marketplace of ideas grinds to a halt so that egomaniacs can run their mouths.
I keep having to cut this entry short, so I'm giving up. I'm the only one around here who does anything. There are emergencies, things I have to do now, now, now, meanwhile two chicks sit on their asses discussing Ikea over chinese take-out.
He likes to shout you down and leave. He should have his own cable news show. Cable news shows are watched by people who love the sensationalism of news. That's all the shows are. There are enough of those people to constitute a formidable maket force. That is sad, sad, sad, because the marketplace of ideas grinds to a halt so that egomaniacs can run their mouths.
I keep having to cut this entry short, so I'm giving up. I'm the only one around here who does anything. There are emergencies, things I have to do now, now, now, meanwhile two chicks sit on their asses discussing Ikea over chinese take-out.
Reading Nabokov on Chekhov, who says only a reader with a sense of humor gets how sad his stories are.
Nabokov is just fulla great ideas.
Nabokov is just fulla great ideas.
Saturday
A pick-up line from my active fantasy life:
The only thing that could possibly be any hotter than you would be you having sex with me.
I only say that here because I could never say it in public, or to anyone. Mom raised me right. Right mom? Something's just not right about this... moving on...
What good is sobriety if you don't get a moment of clarity? It's good because Dale would be pretty miserable at work tomorrow (well, even more miserable) hung over. Being drunk is always a great idea for right now. Damn temporal continuum. It's like the weather. Everybody talks about it but no one ever DOES anything about it.
Work was a hassle au usuelle, I'm home, and I'm missing the party of the month because some chick I work with can't keep herself healthy. Another fantasy comment: The trick is to wash your hands after you take a dump, bitch. Dennis Kucinich and Patch Adams will be there with most of the fun people in the city, whilst I will watch the screenwriter and Chuck Palahniuk's commentary on the Fight club dvd. Fucking timing, I tell you.
Sleep tight, dooders! Happy weekend.
The only thing that could possibly be any hotter than you would be you having sex with me.
I only say that here because I could never say it in public, or to anyone. Mom raised me right. Right mom? Something's just not right about this... moving on...
What good is sobriety if you don't get a moment of clarity? It's good because Dale would be pretty miserable at work tomorrow (well, even more miserable) hung over. Being drunk is always a great idea for right now. Damn temporal continuum. It's like the weather. Everybody talks about it but no one ever DOES anything about it.
Work was a hassle au usuelle, I'm home, and I'm missing the party of the month because some chick I work with can't keep herself healthy. Another fantasy comment: The trick is to wash your hands after you take a dump, bitch. Dennis Kucinich and Patch Adams will be there with most of the fun people in the city, whilst I will watch the screenwriter and Chuck Palahniuk's commentary on the Fight club dvd. Fucking timing, I tell you.
Sleep tight, dooders! Happy weekend.
Magnetic Fluids
Magnetorheological fluids, I want some.
I'd like to build a sculpture with them.
We put them in a pool, then set up some electromagnets around and underneath that pool, link the switches for those magnets to a random number generator, and there you go. It's not only changing art, it's science fact!!
This is another project I will never get to do, but somebody will, and good for them.
Magnetorheological fluids, I want some.
I'd like to build a sculpture with them.
We put them in a pool, then set up some electromagnets around and underneath that pool, link the switches for those magnets to a random number generator, and there you go. It's not only changing art, it's science fact!!
This is another project I will never get to do, but somebody will, and good for them.
Last night I dreamt of a guy named Paper Dar, and the invisible explosions that happen whenever he's around. The invisible explosions are when girls start crying. Why they're crying, I don't know.
Friday
"Monday morning is the peak period for heart attacks," says Dr Craig Hassed, a senior lecturer at Monash University's department of general practice.
"Particularly for males. Every study in Western countries has found the same thing. And what's going on in the minds of many on Monday mornings, of course, is the trials and tribulations that they might have to face at work."
"Particularly for males. Every study in Western countries has found the same thing. And what's going on in the minds of many on Monday mornings, of course, is the trials and tribulations that they might have to face at work."
Wednesday
Where was I? valentine's bears
Drive Me Insane!
From here you can control lamps and other devices in my home in Texas, and others around the world, and view the results on the webcams. I'll still be setting things up over the next month as I'm still moving in. Time: 9:25AM Temperature: 48F. Current Insanity Level: 0.00%
From here you can control lamps and other devices in my home in Texas, and others around the world, and view the results on the webcams. I'll still be setting things up over the next month as I'm still moving in. Time: 9:25AM Temperature: 48F. Current Insanity Level: 0.00%
the pagan heirarchy, funny
Tuesday
papersplease.org :: Hiibel
One balmy May evening back in 2000, Dudley Hiibel was standing around minding his own business when all of a sudden, a policeman pulled-up and demanded that Dudley produce his ID. Dudley, having done nothing wrong, declined. He was arrested and charged with "failure to cooperate" for refusing to show ID on demand. And it's all on video.
On the 22nd of March 2004, the U.S. Supreme Court will decide whether Dudley and the rest of us live in a free society, or in a country where we must show "the papers" whenever a cop demands them.
One balmy May evening back in 2000, Dudley Hiibel was standing around minding his own business when all of a sudden, a policeman pulled-up and demanded that Dudley produce his ID. Dudley, having done nothing wrong, declined. He was arrested and charged with "failure to cooperate" for refusing to show ID on demand. And it's all on video.
On the 22nd of March 2004, the U.S. Supreme Court will decide whether Dudley and the rest of us live in a free society, or in a country where we must show "the papers" whenever a cop demands them.
Monday
I'd like to dedicate a special something to all the people out there who go to work every day and get the shaft.
If they're anything like me, they have serious problems justifying the trade of time from their lives, and thereby their lives themselves, for money, and not much of it at that. This incongruous state of affairs is so insane and so profligate that the only escape for me and I suspect many, many others is contemplating suicide all day. I have thus far committed suicide in my imagination many times over this morning in a variety of ways, including overdoses of various combinations of narcotics, hanging by intravenous tubing, bleeding to death down a tidy hole designed just for that purpose, and so on and so on. This automatically creates an interesting paradox, but only interesting as long as it takes to think about it and be finished, in other words, seconds, before you realize you're at work, miserable miserable miserable. That paradox is this:
Contemplating suicide doesn't work as a thought experiment unless you take it seriously, and in order to take it seriously you must actually consider doing it. However, without the thought experiment you're more mentally unhealthy and therefore more likely to go through with the act itself, out of impulse rather than planning. So the choice appears to be between being obsessed with suicide or committing it, and which is worse is a guess at best.
So here's to you, everybody. Aren't you glad your choices have led you here? If this is the end of your journey, traveler, what a stupid mess you've made of your life. There is no glory this time around, just a long gray hallway with thin carpet and flickering, fluorescent light. Maybe later you can take some of your time-points and trade them for the chance to sit and watch a movie wherein something amazing takes place, because it sure as hell ain't going to happen to you any other way.
If they're anything like me, they have serious problems justifying the trade of time from their lives, and thereby their lives themselves, for money, and not much of it at that. This incongruous state of affairs is so insane and so profligate that the only escape for me and I suspect many, many others is contemplating suicide all day. I have thus far committed suicide in my imagination many times over this morning in a variety of ways, including overdoses of various combinations of narcotics, hanging by intravenous tubing, bleeding to death down a tidy hole designed just for that purpose, and so on and so on. This automatically creates an interesting paradox, but only interesting as long as it takes to think about it and be finished, in other words, seconds, before you realize you're at work, miserable miserable miserable. That paradox is this:
Contemplating suicide doesn't work as a thought experiment unless you take it seriously, and in order to take it seriously you must actually consider doing it. However, without the thought experiment you're more mentally unhealthy and therefore more likely to go through with the act itself, out of impulse rather than planning. So the choice appears to be between being obsessed with suicide or committing it, and which is worse is a guess at best.
So here's to you, everybody. Aren't you glad your choices have led you here? If this is the end of your journey, traveler, what a stupid mess you've made of your life. There is no glory this time around, just a long gray hallway with thin carpet and flickering, fluorescent light. Maybe later you can take some of your time-points and trade them for the chance to sit and watch a movie wherein something amazing takes place, because it sure as hell ain't going to happen to you any other way.
Just don't even click here: Toss My Salad, a guide
hot naked chick under water, not safe for work
I made a discovery late last night.
Anyone who has ever read A Confederacy of Dunces will tell you what a great book it is. Original and hilarious, the main character, Ignatius J. Reilly, embarks on an epic quest of mediocre proportions, in part narrating what goes on in a series of blustery writing projects. I had never seen anything like Ignatius's writing until last night, when, to my GF's ocular discomfort (not that she complained, the angel), I burned the midnight oil with some short essays by G.K. Chesterton.
An excerpt, which if anything ever was, is worth the read:
"On one of these blue and burning afternoons I found myself, to my inexpressible astonishment, playing a game called croquet. I had imagined that it belonged to the epoch of Leach and Anthony Trollope, and I had neglected to provide myself with those very long and luxuriant side whiskers which are really essential to such a scene. I played it with a man whom we will call Parkinson, and with whom I had a semi-philosophical argument which lasted through the entire contest. It is deeply implanted in my mind that I had the best of the argument; but it is certain and beyond dispute that I had the worst of the game.
“Oh, Parkinson, Parkinson!” I cried, patting him affectionately on the head with a mallet, “how far you really are from the pure love of the sport—you who can play. It is only we who play badly who love the Game itself. You love glory; you love applause; you love the earthquake voice of victory; you do not love croquet. You do not love croquet until you love being beaten at croquet. It is we the bunglers who adore the occupation in the abstract. It is we to whom it is art for art's sake. If we may see the face of Croquet herself (if I may so express myself) we are content to see her face turned upon us in anger. Our play is called amateurish; and we wear proudly the name of amateur, for amateurs is but the French for Lovers. We accept all adventures from our Lady, the most disastrous or the most dreary. We wait outside her iron gates (I allude to the hoops), vainly essaying to enter. Our devoted balls, impetuous and full of chivalry, will not be confined within the pedantic boundaries of the mere croquet ground. Our balls seek honour in the ends of the earth; they turn up in the flower-beds and the conservatory; they are to be found in the front garden and the next street. No, Parkinson! The good painter has skill. It is the bad painter who loves his art. The good musician loves being a musician, the bad musician loves music. With such a pure and hopeless passion do I worship croquet. I love the game itself. I love the parallelogram of grass marked out with chalk or tape, as if its limits were the frontiers of my sacred Fatherland, the four seas of Britain. I love the mere swing of the mallets, and the click of the balls is music. The four colours are to me sacramental and symbolic, like the red of martyrdom, or the white of Easter Day. You lose all this, my poor Parkinson. You have to solace yourself for the absence of this vision by the paltry consolation of being able to go through hoops and to hit the stick.”
And I waved my mallet in the air with a graceful gaiety."
I rest my case. This is where the character Reilly gets his flavor, never have I been more sure of a literary influence.
Chesterton can be read free, online, here.
Anyone who has ever read A Confederacy of Dunces will tell you what a great book it is. Original and hilarious, the main character, Ignatius J. Reilly, embarks on an epic quest of mediocre proportions, in part narrating what goes on in a series of blustery writing projects. I had never seen anything like Ignatius's writing until last night, when, to my GF's ocular discomfort (not that she complained, the angel), I burned the midnight oil with some short essays by G.K. Chesterton.
An excerpt, which if anything ever was, is worth the read:
"On one of these blue and burning afternoons I found myself, to my inexpressible astonishment, playing a game called croquet. I had imagined that it belonged to the epoch of Leach and Anthony Trollope, and I had neglected to provide myself with those very long and luxuriant side whiskers which are really essential to such a scene. I played it with a man whom we will call Parkinson, and with whom I had a semi-philosophical argument which lasted through the entire contest. It is deeply implanted in my mind that I had the best of the argument; but it is certain and beyond dispute that I had the worst of the game.
“Oh, Parkinson, Parkinson!” I cried, patting him affectionately on the head with a mallet, “how far you really are from the pure love of the sport—you who can play. It is only we who play badly who love the Game itself. You love glory; you love applause; you love the earthquake voice of victory; you do not love croquet. You do not love croquet until you love being beaten at croquet. It is we the bunglers who adore the occupation in the abstract. It is we to whom it is art for art's sake. If we may see the face of Croquet herself (if I may so express myself) we are content to see her face turned upon us in anger. Our play is called amateurish; and we wear proudly the name of amateur, for amateurs is but the French for Lovers. We accept all adventures from our Lady, the most disastrous or the most dreary. We wait outside her iron gates (I allude to the hoops), vainly essaying to enter. Our devoted balls, impetuous and full of chivalry, will not be confined within the pedantic boundaries of the mere croquet ground. Our balls seek honour in the ends of the earth; they turn up in the flower-beds and the conservatory; they are to be found in the front garden and the next street. No, Parkinson! The good painter has skill. It is the bad painter who loves his art. The good musician loves being a musician, the bad musician loves music. With such a pure and hopeless passion do I worship croquet. I love the game itself. I love the parallelogram of grass marked out with chalk or tape, as if its limits were the frontiers of my sacred Fatherland, the four seas of Britain. I love the mere swing of the mallets, and the click of the balls is music. The four colours are to me sacramental and symbolic, like the red of martyrdom, or the white of Easter Day. You lose all this, my poor Parkinson. You have to solace yourself for the absence of this vision by the paltry consolation of being able to go through hoops and to hit the stick.”
And I waved my mallet in the air with a graceful gaiety."
I rest my case. This is where the character Reilly gets his flavor, never have I been more sure of a literary influence.
Chesterton can be read free, online, here.
Sunday
"I suppose everyone must have reflected how primeval and poetical are the things one carries in one's pocket; the pocket-knife, for instance, the type of all human tools, the infant of the sword. Once I planned to write a book of poems entirely about the things in my pockets. But I found it would be too long; and the age of the great epics is past." - G.K. Chesterton
Tony Robbins sucks. His tapes are crazy. Any organization that wants you to "Listen to the tapes! The tapes! Yes, but did you listen to them? The TAPES take all that confusion away! Bwahahaha! TAPES!" is selling you to yourself. See Amway and every other marketing pyramid for some tapes to listen to. Tony Robbins is crazy. Tony Robbins is a hyper-pituitary personality cult for dorky white people. If you think Tony Robbins can help save you from yourself, you need more help than Tony Robbins can give you. Tony Robbins scares me. Tony Robbins is the devil. Tony Robbins wants you to look in the mirror and say I love you. That sucks and Tony Robbins sucks. Tony Robbins makes his career on being positive, motivating, and pumping people up to achieve and succeed. Pump yourself up, people, don't give this pop-psych guru a nickel so he can tell you how great success is. The joke's on you if you do. The funniest thing I saw last week was a fake advertisement bearing a mock service's motto: People selling people to people! Tony Robbins isn't even kidding and still hapless dimwits line up to throw money at the king of enthusiasm, whose motto could well be: Me selling people to themselves!
What will I do later?
I think I'll make something good for dinner.
Work has been slow, slow, slow, so I've been tinkering with machines all day with my cool little screwdriver.
I feel like I drank last night, but I didn't. Just slapped together a photoshop project phase with my brother John. We're doing sort of an image story interpretation of Tom Sawyer, based on the Fisher Price children's story tape. If you want to hear that, you can email me and we'll make a date to ftp. As for the other, it should be pretty funny. I've been a little down after reading the feb 04 cover story in Harper's about the unsustainability of our agricultural system. It turns out that without oil, we wouldn't have much to eat. I recommend you go pick up a copy and check it out, and then later we can all arrange a mass suicide.
Did I mention work was slow? I think I'm surprised by how slowly my brain is working today. Nothing is being caught by it and processed in any interesting way. I'm just being slowly digested by the fluorescent lights and the IV hood fans. Twurdle twardle pokkit frittle mastic tragic zortle badgit.
I think I'll make something good for dinner.
Work has been slow, slow, slow, so I've been tinkering with machines all day with my cool little screwdriver.
I feel like I drank last night, but I didn't. Just slapped together a photoshop project phase with my brother John. We're doing sort of an image story interpretation of Tom Sawyer, based on the Fisher Price children's story tape. If you want to hear that, you can email me and we'll make a date to ftp. As for the other, it should be pretty funny. I've been a little down after reading the feb 04 cover story in Harper's about the unsustainability of our agricultural system. It turns out that without oil, we wouldn't have much to eat. I recommend you go pick up a copy and check it out, and then later we can all arrange a mass suicide.
Did I mention work was slow? I think I'm surprised by how slowly my brain is working today. Nothing is being caught by it and processed in any interesting way. I'm just being slowly digested by the fluorescent lights and the IV hood fans. Twurdle twardle pokkit frittle mastic tragic zortle badgit.
me first
OSTRIMAmerica's #1 Sports Nutrition Meat Stick
Oh boy! If they say it's number one, then it must be! Sign me up for a case of these babies!
Kentucky.com: Your guide to news, sports, jobs, homes, cars, and psychos who shoot their wives because they think she was taken over by aliens
Saturday
50 First dates.
Adam Sandler's latest movie was funny and romantic. Really romantic. Romantic for long periods of time and at high intensity. Romance bombarded the audience with powerful waves of romantic romance. The romance was everywhere; even the soda that stuck to the bottom of my shoe made a romantic sticky squick noise as I walked out in a haze of romance.
Did I mention it was funny, in a goofy, romantic way? They should have a name for movies like that, that are all sappy and funny and romantic. I've got it! Romantic comedy! Call my agent.
In fairness, it was really impossible for Drew Barrymore to top her performance in my dream two nights ago, in which we got it on like the crazy world of Arthur Brown, the self-proclaimed and undisputed "god of all hell fire".
Adam Sandler's latest movie was funny and romantic. Really romantic. Romantic for long periods of time and at high intensity. Romance bombarded the audience with powerful waves of romantic romance. The romance was everywhere; even the soda that stuck to the bottom of my shoe made a romantic sticky squick noise as I walked out in a haze of romance.
Did I mention it was funny, in a goofy, romantic way? They should have a name for movies like that, that are all sappy and funny and romantic. I've got it! Romantic comedy! Call my agent.
In fairness, it was really impossible for Drew Barrymore to top her performance in my dream two nights ago, in which we got it on like the crazy world of Arthur Brown, the self-proclaimed and undisputed "god of all hell fire".
ABCNEWS.com : Astronomers Spy Massive Diamond
"The hunk of celestial bling is an estimated 2,500 miles across, said Travis Metcalfe, of the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics."
"Bling" is dumb, I hate it, and it should go away from me.
GIS for bling
turns up this
You can get your teeth covered with metal at Mr. Bling.
Bling is the tackiest thing since disco.
"The hunk of celestial bling is an estimated 2,500 miles across, said Travis Metcalfe, of the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics."
"Bling" is dumb, I hate it, and it should go away from me.
GIS for bling
turns up this
You can get your teeth covered with metal at Mr. Bling.
Bling is the tackiest thing since disco.
Friday
Talking Points Memo: by Joshua Micah Marshall: "The president hits the 50% approval mark and he comes out for a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage and civil unions.
What lever does he pull when he hits 45%?
-- Josh Marshall"
What lever does he pull when he hits 45%?
-- Josh Marshall"
Well, Valentine's day is tomorrow, and today is friday the thirteenth, which means that if you're single and superstitious, you have two reasons to hate everything today.
On the positive side, I had to turn down a chance to host a big fun Valentine's day bash at a pretty stinking huge nightclub. The idea was "anti-valentine's consortium" and we had rock bands that would have loved to play it, but I have a conflict in my schedule, that being I have to work tomorrow and I'd stay up all night getting piss drunk if I did it. The idea is a direct rip-off of an event in Seattle, where the audience brings stuff that they still have that belongs to their exes, throws it on the stage, and the rock band just stomps the hell out of it until it's uniformly unrecognizable beer-soaked worthless filth. Yeah. I was thinking of calling it Cupid is Stupid.
So I'm happy about it both for the reason that I have a job to go to, and that the girl who books all the bands was ready to hand me the keys to the place, so to speak.
As for my plans, I'm going to dinner tonight with the lovely Joyce and then to watch a movie, which sounds pretty foolproof. And maybe we'll even have ice cream. How cute.
I just made some salmon and I think I undercooked it, but I ate it anyway. Wish me luck with the whole not-getting-sick thing.
On the positive side, I had to turn down a chance to host a big fun Valentine's day bash at a pretty stinking huge nightclub. The idea was "anti-valentine's consortium" and we had rock bands that would have loved to play it, but I have a conflict in my schedule, that being I have to work tomorrow and I'd stay up all night getting piss drunk if I did it. The idea is a direct rip-off of an event in Seattle, where the audience brings stuff that they still have that belongs to their exes, throws it on the stage, and the rock band just stomps the hell out of it until it's uniformly unrecognizable beer-soaked worthless filth. Yeah. I was thinking of calling it Cupid is Stupid.
So I'm happy about it both for the reason that I have a job to go to, and that the girl who books all the bands was ready to hand me the keys to the place, so to speak.
As for my plans, I'm going to dinner tonight with the lovely Joyce and then to watch a movie, which sounds pretty foolproof. And maybe we'll even have ice cream. How cute.
I just made some salmon and I think I undercooked it, but I ate it anyway. Wish me luck with the whole not-getting-sick thing.
Some total freak has put up a page of photoshopped images of children (many of whom are curiously wearing skimpy, tight-fitting swimsuits) with smaller people all around them. Like the kids are giants, get it? Me neither.
Anyway, it's obviously either a front for a child porn sting operation or actual child pornographers doing it. There's really no doubt. At all. My vote is the latter.
Here's the page if you want to see the most maladjusted and creepy thing you've probably ever seen. That page is just the main page, so there's nothing bad on it, per se.
You were warned.
By the way, I found it by a google image search for the word angry. If you look at that site you'll understand why I'm motivated to distance myself from its every access route excepting accidental.
Maybe the most shocking thing about it wasn't the imagery, which was well worth a nasty knock, but the writing submissions. Reading the work of someone with a truly tortured psyche can be a pretty soul-obliterating experience, and the writing here was just that. The chasm is deep and wide that separates the kind of people who are into this and the rest of us. Who are they? I think they are the people we automatically distance ourselves from, the fantasy game-players, people we rarely see, and when we do see them, we look past them in favor of something we can connect with.
Anyway, it's obviously either a front for a child porn sting operation or actual child pornographers doing it. There's really no doubt. At all. My vote is the latter.
Here's the page if you want to see the most maladjusted and creepy thing you've probably ever seen. That page is just the main page, so there's nothing bad on it, per se.
You were warned.
By the way, I found it by a google image search for the word angry. If you look at that site you'll understand why I'm motivated to distance myself from its every access route excepting accidental.
Maybe the most shocking thing about it wasn't the imagery, which was well worth a nasty knock, but the writing submissions. Reading the work of someone with a truly tortured psyche can be a pretty soul-obliterating experience, and the writing here was just that. The chasm is deep and wide that separates the kind of people who are into this and the rest of us. Who are they? I think they are the people we automatically distance ourselves from, the fantasy game-players, people we rarely see, and when we do see them, we look past them in favor of something we can connect with.
The Camel-Toe Report, the camel toe haiku project
The Chump, another big site where lots of time can be spent looking around (wasted).
Thursday
Caving with Tom Sawyer, Secrets of McDougal's Cave
No Flesh Guaranteed, anti-porn porn
newman also sent me this political map.
A woefully incomplete analysis of “funny”
You know what’s funny? It’s when something out of the ordinary happens. This in itself makes for a decent “joke” due to its reference points and its contextual shift, but falls on its face for the same reason as this does: “I eat my hot dogs cold, no bun intended”.Jokes are usually stories of situations that wind up going in unexpected directions. Sometimes jokes include scatological references, racial stereotypes, or sexual innuendoes because the shock value of these references adds to the situational unexpectedness. Jokes that rely heavily on these plebeian morphologies are generally cause for one to abandon their company and go in search of someone who will be quiet, somone with anything else to say, or no one at all; in any case, an exodus guaranteed to be a more enriching experience, and an overall good move.
Punchlines are the end parts of jokes. A punchline’s purpose is to highlight and conclude the stories (or to rejoin the proposed questions), in unpredicted ways. More generally they tend to throw the introductory segment of the joke into sharp relief. It is necessary to point out that in our information-soaked times, punchlines are normally not unexpected, and can usually be predicted in advance, given enough time. I think we’ve all experienced an instance in which someone was telling us a joke and their comic timing sucked so badly that we had plenty of time to come up with a great punchline on our own, our punchline being different and better than the intended one. We got a kick out of it, they didn’t, and that’s another type of joke. The joke “on” someone else, made all the more gratifying by the teller’s obviously unpredicted new role as listener. Because we are tired of jokes we spoil everybody else’s. Hecklers try to do this sometimes at comedy clubs, and the performers normally wind up embarrassing them as a result of the fact the heckler is already at a disadvantage, being without a microphone and an ability to make themselves laugh in the first place, hence their attendance at a preplanned event of funnyness. But the heckler’s plight is one we all understand. He is frustrated by his situation and cries out. “Why can I not be as funny as this comedian?”, he asks himself. He is then moved to pipe up and draw attention to himself. He can, of course, easily be as funny as the performer, but he has chosen the wrong moment to try, and he will pay for this in embarrassment, which he surely had coming.
Another type of joke is a practical joke. This type of joke doesn’t rely on words to carry it off. It’s also called a prank, and consists of an act of mischief, which can be either good-natured or malicious, and as a result can usually be construed as either. If someone comes home and finds their furniture is glued to the ceiling, they can be pretty sure someone’s played a practical joke on them. Practical jokes rely on the juxaposition of two conditions of reality rather than of two modes of speech, which is why they are much more rare, and much funnier. (Not to obfuscate the issue at hand, “funnier” in this case means more likely to elicit a laugh. Being likely to elicit laughter is only one definition of funny, others include “odd”, “insolent or impertinent”, “facetious”, and “attempting to amuse”. While it must be said that all these conditions are in bed together under the blanket of unexpected, the last is, sadly, far from funny. “Attempting to amuse” means it didn’t amuse and therefore wasn’t funny in any other way, and definitively implies that someone who failed to be funny in all other ways can still be funny for the very reason that he isn’t. People who understand the english language often encounter difficulty in using it, because it’s increasingly designed to mean syntactically more in the sense of its facile utility, and thereby syntactically less in the sense of well-formed, logical, and realistic. In fact, when the meaning of syntax itself is bifurcated in this way, we might just be better off starting over from scratch, or if you watch television shows about cavemen or indians, “ugh.”)
Because I’m a bad writer, I need more punctuation than I should. I need punctuation that pulls an idea out of parentheses and adds it back into the main subject heading, because that’s what I did and it looks all jumbled up and thrown together, which it is. Fortunately for me, everything everywhere is jumbled up and thrown together, but we have to carry on as if it wasn’t.
Another thing that can be called funny is seeing things as funny that aren’t intended to be. This process can be drawn out ad absurdum, and is usually a sign of burgeoning psychosis rather than perspicacity. Please ask a crazy homeless laughing guy for examples.
Humor is intended to cause amusement, so it doesn’t have the sharp crackle of an unanticipated joke and is thus less irritating on the whole. “Humorists” includes reputable writers such as P.G. Wodehouse, his protégé Douglas Adams, and if stretched, Kurt Vonnegut, William Faulkner, and even Vladimir Nabokov, but the last three fall under the subcategory “black humorists”, and “black humor” is not something anybody really understands, to the best of my knowledge, the inner workings of well enough to effectively flesh out. “Humorists” also regrettably holds James Lileks and Garrison Keillor in the palm of its itchy hand. These two cannibalize all that is admirable about “humor”, and if there were no such thing as the word “humorist” for them to be called, they would probably be doing a smash-up job bagging my groceries and would periodically stare into the distance wondering what was missing from their lives. Humor is an art, and agile minds perform it with grace, using language to construct ideas of all the kinds and scales that can be gently bent out of their shapes and given new, tickling meanings and shades. Good humor can’t be deconstructed in less words than it takes to repeat verbatim, so I won’t bother analyzing it (nor would I dare give myself credit for being able to), because good humor is a highly developed form of rhythmic musical language, in other words, a poem. I’ll have to strain not to turn this into a polemic against the continuing crisis of that dirtbag shitball warhawk nerd Lileks’s internet cult following, and instead will move on to the problem with funny.
The problem is that the market’s expectations for humor are low. We want a chuckle, and that’s what we get, nothing more. The fact that Keillor and Lileks can be popular is what’s to blame. The market created them as what they are, legitimate sellers of ideas, and the market’s constituents are idiotic, apathetic, and therefore impossibly easy to which to pander. See the wild popularity of scatological, racist, and sexual innuendoes for details. To conclude this exercise, it must be said, in fairness, the James Lileks and Garrison Keillor do "attempt to amuse", so they are at least technically, funny, and at most really, blowhards with nothing of value to add to the public discourse.
Anyway, I’ve gone on too long, so have a great day and drop me an email to tell me about all the great stuff I’m missing on the internet. Newman does. He sent me this, a virtual knee surgery.
A local couple guilty of incest are out of jail, and now speaking out. Father and daughter, Carrol and Alice Ferdinandsen, married last spring, defend their relationship.
“I would do anything for him,” Alice Ferdinandsen. “I would die for him: that's how much I love him."
“I don’t think I'm crazy crazy,: said Carrol. “I am crazy in love with her.”
“I would do anything for him,” Alice Ferdinandsen. “I would die for him: that's how much I love him."
“I don’t think I'm crazy crazy,: said Carrol. “I am crazy in love with her.”
GoHook, I think this is an ebay search hack, but I don't care enough to find out for sure
Wednesday
Speaking of quotes, "I will create a brand new god and thank him with piercing cries if you give me that microscopic hope", a snippet from one of the greats, Lolita, a really funny book that a person can't help but study when they read. Now I'm off to bed and read HHG2G mark 2, Restaurant for the umpteenth.
Photography is nice.
A cameras, someone said, is an invention that teaches the person using it how to see, but that's just another annoying quote to add to the bloated and ever-growing list.
I'd like to see photography of what's behind the camera, that is, what's it the camera is avoiding seeing. Because I am so original and unique, that's why. But still, it makes me wonder.
A cameras, someone said, is an invention that teaches the person using it how to see, but that's just another annoying quote to add to the bloated and ever-growing list.
I'd like to see photography of what's behind the camera, that is, what's it the camera is avoiding seeing. Because I am so original and unique, that's why. But still, it makes me wonder.
Man admits to letting preteens drink
"Some of the children vomited and others fell asleep, but the party continued until 4:30 a.m. on Feb. 1, according to court records."
Sounds about right.
"Some of the children vomited and others fell asleep, but the party continued until 4:30 a.m. on Feb. 1, according to court records."
Sounds about right.
Guardian Unlimited | Special reports | Devil in the detail of Sicily's mysterious village fires
"Is Lucifer loose on Sicily? No lesser figure than the honorary president of the International Association of Exorcists believes he may be."
See, in Great Britain that's funny! Pat Robertson couldn't get a job sweeping the floor in Great Britain.
"Is Lucifer loose on Sicily? No lesser figure than the honorary president of the International Association of Exorcists believes he may be."
See, in Great Britain that's funny! Pat Robertson couldn't get a job sweeping the floor in Great Britain.
This should be everywhere. A flash movie telling why we invaded Iraq, narrated by the unpresident, Powell, Cheney, Rumsfeld. Well worth the wait.
And another article from the same site, USCrusade, which went directly to my permanent slink bar as a result:
Fascism Anyone?
And another article from the same site, USCrusade, which went directly to my permanent slink bar as a result:
Fascism Anyone?
Tuesday
victor is dead slash luna: 
The terror alert banana's color corresponds to the terror alert level at any given time.
now vs. then
The world is coming to an end very soon.We are alive right now, and therefore were likely to be alive immediately before we were alive. According to what set of odds doesn't matter, what does matter is that odds were it would happen when it did, because it did. A useful tautology.
Any person is most likely to live at the time most the people are alive, because there are the most chances for them to be alive at that time.
Therefore, we can assume that the future is not the time when we were most likely to be alive, otherwise we'd "be" then, instead of now, because otherwise it would be the most likely time for us to live, so we would.
Q.E.D.
networks, social
for my genius brother joe, the only person I know who's ever worked on a paper after college.one, a pdf
Science -- Dodds et al. 301 (5634): 827 <---- two, html
Weekly book reviews and literary analysis from the Times Literary Supplement, The odds against Hamlet
Talking Points Memo: by Joshua Micah Marshall Check out the q & a with Scott McCellan.
Dr. Laura
naked. Not safe for work. Especially if you work for Dr. Laura, in which case you should just look at it anyway, because working for her has got to suck.Is she hot? No! she's just a bitch!
I found the following headline at sco's interim website, since their real one got melted over a week ago by the doom virus. "SCO Offers Reward For Arrest And Conviction Of Mydoom Virus Author"
Our old friend... "making information illegal", which is on the order of doing the same with the hardy, magic, and indefatigable marijuana plant. What this string of words means is that there is such a thing as illegal information, even though no person is hurt by it. We'll see what happens, and we should not ignore that what occurs in these lawsuits against hackers sets the scene for the beginning of the real revolution. Not the prepositions again... it's getting late. We're witnessing history, mates. These are heady days indeed.
Our old friend... "making information illegal", which is on the order of doing the same with the hardy, magic, and indefatigable marijuana plant. What this string of words means is that there is such a thing as illegal information, even though no person is hurt by it. We'll see what happens, and we should not ignore that what occurs in these lawsuits against hackers sets the scene for the beginning of the real revolution. Not the prepositions again... it's getting late. We're witnessing history, mates. These are heady days indeed.
forgetting
I used to joke ('cause I'm sooo funny) that if I were a comic-book hero my superpower would be hiding, but time has taught me my real superpower is the ability to forget. I know I forget because I don't know very much, and when I look back on what I know I've done, books I've read, places I've been, there's a lot of information missing.What happened when I was young? Most people know that. I don't. Looking at pictures it starts to come back, but it's all places and boats and cars and a guy who's me, and it stops coming back. The smell of wood chips and the pesticide they spray on them reminds me of something but I can't say what, exactly. Probably an office park, but what happened there? Why was I anywhere that halfway brings back a memory? Algae, both by feel and sight bobbing on a small wave, chiggers, thorns, trees rushing past, it's all just imagery, disembodied and useless. And that's all I remember. In part, that's why I write here. So that reality will have continuity. I already know I can escape and reinvent, and it doesn't interest me.
Not only is there already a lot of missingness, I can forget absolutely anything I want to, right now, and that scares me. The cultivation of my way-over-guilty conscience may be a consequence of my inability to retain information. Logically, it makes sense that one who can't remember must consider that anything happened, even the unthinkable. Example: In fifth grade the class came back from lunch and there were bad words all over the blackboard. Nobody knew who did it. The popular kid got up, panicked, and was trying to enlist the help of the class in deciding whether or not to erase it before the teacher got back. Eventually, the consensus was "well, hell yes, we should erase it", but before that happened, the popular kid asked a question that I hear as clear as a bell, all these years later. "Who was the last person out of the room?" I thought about this. I had been the last one out. Did I do that? Yes. Yes I did. It took that kid asking to make me realize that I'd written all over the blackboard. Nobody ever found out about that, barely even me. What does it mean? It means that I was pretty crazy at the time, and that there is a forgetting pattern in my brain. A most troubling development. Or, I didn't do it and just convinced myself that I did. Maybe I made up the whole thing just to entertain myself, because I like things spooky. Am I just imagining that I can forget anything I feel like? By imagining that, have I willed myself into forgetting? It sounds absurd but it's something I have to consider, because I don't know for sure. And that, while an extreme example, illustrates neatly what it's like to be me.
Every time I read a book I have to talk about it constantly while I'm reading it, because if I don't, I can't remember anything about it but what's on the jacket. Depending on how you look at it, this is either a lifelong cycle of self-torture, or a genuine brain malfunction. I'd like it to be that my life as I know it is a lie, and with the right private brain care specialist come out of it and be able to recite Keats into the early morning, all from memory. Sure, I'd seek therapy in order to live the life I fantasize about, one in which I can remember the things I want to, and in order to learn I just pick up a book and its contents dutifully join a carefully organized and cross-indexed library in my brain. Who wouldn't?
Me, of course. More likely, I just don't remember stuff that well, and more likely still, I don't remember stuff that doesn't interest me, which includes Keats and a hell of a lot of other things. I like being almost insane. I feel close to an essential truth, and my presence adds value to every situation I walk into. So, tracing this back through the questions about that day in fifth grade, what is illuminated?
A) I did it as a cry for help because of an accumulation of stress, then chickened out when it came time to fess up.
B) I didn't do it, got bored, and started a thought experiment that could go on forever.
Equally plausible if you ask me. I really don't remember.
Monday
There's two kinds of people:
The people who say there's two kinds of people, and
People who don't.
Don't be one of the first kind. It's bad policy, like list radio. Anybody can read off a list of "my favorite bathtime gurgles" and do a call-in show about it, and anybody can use the weary there's two kinds of people expression.
And anOther thing: comedians. If they're not being really sarcastic, they're trying to get you to be their buddy and see things their way. And laugh with them. Gross. I've endured enough endearing comedy to last me three methuselahs and a twinkie.
The people who say there's two kinds of people, and
People who don't.
Don't be one of the first kind. It's bad policy, like list radio. Anybody can read off a list of "my favorite bathtime gurgles" and do a call-in show about it, and anybody can use the weary there's two kinds of people expression.
And anOther thing: comedians. If they're not being really sarcastic, they're trying to get you to be their buddy and see things their way. And laugh with them. Gross. I've endured enough endearing comedy to last me three methuselahs and a twinkie.
White slaughter in South Africa?
"Night of the Long Knives". In spite of the idiotic tone of the greater site and the obvious sensationalism inherent in the please-make-a-soundbite-out-of-me prose, the shit could go down in South Africa. That place is nuts.
"Night of the Long Knives". In spite of the idiotic tone of the greater site and the obvious sensationalism inherent in the please-make-a-soundbite-out-of-me prose, the shit could go down in South Africa. That place is nuts.
Semen Displacement as a Sperm Competition Strategy in Humans by Gordon G. Gallup, Jr. and Rebecca L. Burch It's a long and gratifying read.
Where was the liberal media on this one. You'd think the communists and jews who run the media would have run with it... oh yeah. That's a lie. Not to mention the segment of the sotu speech where the prez gets bitch-slapped by the left of the aisle on the patriot act b.s... that's available at atrios eschaton.
from the linked article: "New York City, site of the country's most horrific terrorist attack, Wednesday became the latest in a long list of cities and towns that have formally opposed the expanded investigatory powers granted to law enforcement agencies under the USA Patriot Act."
from the linked article: "New York City, site of the country's most horrific terrorist attack, Wednesday became the latest in a long list of cities and towns that have formally opposed the expanded investigatory powers granted to law enforcement agencies under the USA Patriot Act."
Vegas' grim side surfaces monthly. What happens in Vegas, stays in vegas, especially when you're blowing your brains out. Props to Neal Karlen, who tells me that survivors of suicide jumps tell of recalcitrance on the way down at a much higher frequency when their motivation was borne of love and not of money troubles.
Sunday
Calpundit: ARF! In which our hero asks: What the hell IS George Bush's service record?
Try this addictive electoral vote map, which diebold will pretty much do in November
I'm just a little black rain cloud
Hovering under the honey tree
I'm only a little black rain cloud
Pay no attention to little me
Ev'ryone knows that a rain cloud
Never eats honey, no, not a nip
I'm just floating around over the ground
Wondering where I will drip
Oh, ev'ryone knows that a rain cloud
Never eats honey, no, not a nip
I'm just floating around over the ground
Wondering where I will drip
Hovering under the honey tree
I'm only a little black rain cloud
Pay no attention to little me
Ev'ryone knows that a rain cloud
Never eats honey, no, not a nip
I'm just floating around over the ground
Wondering where I will drip
Oh, ev'ryone knows that a rain cloud
Never eats honey, no, not a nip
I'm just floating around over the ground
Wondering where I will drip
New Scientist - Men inflict greater pain than women. My ex-girlfriend could have told you that, because she can't stop wanting to ruin my life, so she told some key people that I'm an alcoholic abuser. Nice. The only time I ever had physical antagonism with her was when I restrained her because she was trying to kill me. Courtesy prohibits me from posting the pictures I took of her that night. Let's just say they're very, very bad. I wasn't so drunk that I didn't think of her as an interesting photographic study: the reptile within.
Of aaaall the women who need their asses kicked by someone who can really kick some ass, K's at the top of the list, and the fact I never indulged in some hardcore ass-whippin' is a testament to my virtue. There should be a special award for people like me, who don't smack the fucking hell out of people like her.
Of aaaall the women who need their asses kicked by someone who can really kick some ass, K's at the top of the list, and the fact I never indulged in some hardcore ass-whippin' is a testament to my virtue. There should be a special award for people like me, who don't smack the fucking hell out of people like her.
Speaking to a group of top corporate executives in San Jose, Calif., Thursday, Gov. Schwarzenegger said: "People are poor in this state now. With the economy going down, people have no clothes anymore. Look what happened to Janet Jackson."
Can't you just hear him saying that?
Can't you just hear him saying that?
New York Daily News - Religious rant by pilot
An American Airlines pilot terrified passengers aboard a Los Angeles-to-New York flight when he asked Christians to identify themselves and then called those who weren't Christian "crazy," witnesses and an airline spokesman said yesterday.
An American Airlines pilot terrified passengers aboard a Los Angeles-to-New York flight when he asked Christians to identify themselves and then called those who weren't Christian "crazy," witnesses and an airline spokesman said yesterday.
welcome home, not safe for work
Ericbear Boot Pictures Not safe for work. Overall, pretty sick-ish, but reaffirming in the sense that there's someone for everyone, and this guy hasn't given up hope. /gayness ensues
so drunk
I tried to get change out of the machine, only it was a coffeemaker.Tonight I hit stand-up frank's, a bar famous for its policy of giving a free drink to anyone who turns over their alcoholics anonymous sobriety coin, where I had quite possibly the world's strongest gin tonic, psycho suzy's tiki bar (unexceptional), Stasiu's, which had the best urinals EVER, and the northeast minneapolis yacht club.
Saturday
the moon is low
I just looked out the window to see what that light was, and it was the moon. It's almost at eye level in the sky from my desk here, yellowy and full. No one expects to be surprised. They can't. Some guy on the cops show said when you're a cop, you have to "expect the unexpected", dumb. The moon's so bright it makes the dirt on my window stand out. I should clean it some time.
magnification videos, get close up.
a video of a salesman hurting himself with a sword on the shopping channel. But the show must go on.
Financepage
Click focus, then the barely visible sOe in the top banner. Now you can look at porn at work. The urls are unnoticeable.
Click focus, then the barely visible sOe in the top banner. Now you can look at porn at work. The urls are unnoticeable.
Friday
LawMeme - Worst Terms of Service Ever
LawMeme - Worst Terms of Service Ever "The legalese is an astonishing 21,000 words long, and gives every sign of having been professionally drafted by a competent lawyer with severe OCD. It's not quite that any individual term is clearly insane as that the redundancy makes the whole much less than the sum of its parts. We've been cracking each other up by reading selections aloud."party.
They're making my favorite book into a movie. This book rescued me in a strange time in my life: adolescence. If they do it right, leave the jokes big and fat the way they're supposed to be, and let the flavor of the book come through, this will be the biggest thing since star wars.from brother john
speech emulator.his chemistry teacher
amazingly obnoxious dog lover, warning: music ensues
obnoxious cat lover page
Thursday
Dinner
was from Erbert and Gerbert's, a sub place. All the food had silly names. I ordered the "tappy".There were four of us. When the sandwiches showed up, there were four of those, too. Two of them were "Tappies". The other two were about eight inches long, but the tappies weren't. One of those was two inches shorter than the other. I mean, it was OBvious. Almost comedy, but when you're dealing with hungry animals, something atavistic sets in. It's a mean time to be around.
The girl who ordered the other "Tappy" reached right over there and grabbed the big one. I don't know if she just didn't care, or whether she didn't notice, but either way, nice guys finish last. I can't help but think if I'd reached over there and grabbed that thing, she'd have at least given me the crusty look to end all cruty looks.
I know a girl who worked in a restaurant, and when two kids would both order ice cream, she'd make one kid's scoop WAY bigger than the other, just so they would fight when she brought it to the table. She didn't care for children much. The mother would invariably tel the children that the scoops were just the same size and they should quit bickering. Maybe this sandwich episode is some sort of cosmic payback for laughing about the ice cream waitress. She told me other things, that waitress. Maybe another time I'll get into those.
Don't do this:
When women are talking about how one of them is pregnant, just don't say anything. Unless you're a woman. If you're a man, something stupid will come out. Don't say "Yeah, so I see you're pregnant there" or "Got a bun in the ol' oven" or "All right, hey, you're pregnant, aren't you, so did you go with the artificial insemination or the traditional?"It's a fair question, sure. Relevant. Yet somehow so wrong.
Talking about pregnancy could be construed in the coming totalitarian workplace to be a form of sexual harrassment, because what's more sexual than pregnancy?
I put up wth the pregancy chat at work, only to come home and not be able to get topless cheerleaders on network television. Unfair...
now researchers think [the amygdala] may... focus our attention on provocative emotional cues.
story here
story here
Li'l G n'R, first ever guns n roses tribute band
Wednesday
Jon Stewart interviews Howard Dean, realmedia
"Son of Sam" born again in prison. Praise the lord. Forgiven for life, realmedia. I like the guitar gently playing while he tells about his introduction to the lordy lordy. "Suddenly, tears began to well up in my eyes"..."and I felt the desire to talk to the lord". Always lots of feelings involved. Sticky mess. Worship is tacky at best.
And at worst, it's mass psychosis.
Hitler wasn't doing this in a half-empty coffeeshop. There were people there. A lot of them.
Only now, that sort of people looks more like this.
We still have icon-worship. We say it's different this time.
This passes as funny.
We're all wearing the blue dress now.
So now the VFW is mad because "Kid Rock" dressed up in the flag at the super bowl.
But what does the flag mean anymore? In a sentence, "Get pumped up to fight", as far as I can tell.
Even war is dull. We need to call it Superwar now. Selling a war, though unneccesary, makes for high presidental approval ratings. Not that he needs our approval. He didn't during the last election.
And it would take the world's bravest journalist, but I'd like to see him cruise around America, (which we stopped calling the united states at some point, if you hadn't noticed) and ask people which they love more: God, or America. I would quit my job to come home and watch that footage.
"Son of Sam" born again in prison. Praise the lord. Forgiven for life, realmedia. I like the guitar gently playing while he tells about his introduction to the lordy lordy. "Suddenly, tears began to well up in my eyes"..."and I felt the desire to talk to the lord". Always lots of feelings involved. Sticky mess. Worship is tacky at best.
And at worst, it's mass psychosis.
Hitler wasn't doing this in a half-empty coffeeshop. There were people there. A lot of them.
Only now, that sort of people looks more like this.
We still have icon-worship. We say it's different this time.
This passes as funny.
We're all wearing the blue dress now.
So now the VFW is mad because "Kid Rock" dressed up in the flag at the super bowl.
But what does the flag mean anymore? In a sentence, "Get pumped up to fight", as far as I can tell.
Even war is dull. We need to call it Superwar now. Selling a war, though unneccesary, makes for high presidental approval ratings. Not that he needs our approval. He didn't during the last election.
And it would take the world's bravest journalist, but I'd like to see him cruise around America, (which we stopped calling the united states at some point, if you hadn't noticed) and ask people which they love more: God, or America. I would quit my job to come home and watch that footage.
from Atrios
Paid for by your tax dollar.GOVERNMENT
Waste, Fraud & Abuse?Just two days after the White House proposed serious budget cuts and the President said he's "calling upon Congress to be wise with the taxpayer's money," the Bush Administration announced a massive taxpayer-funded television ad campaign to promote its controversial Medicare bill (you can download the ad). Specifically, the White House will use $9.5 million from the Department of Health and Human Services – money that is supposed to be used to implement the law and could go to restore some of the cuts to social services for the poor – on political commercials that "rebut criticism of the new Medicare law." The TV ads will be augmented by $3.1 million in print, radio and Spanish-language ads. The effort represents an "uncommonly aggressive campaign by the administration and congressional Republicans to promote legislation that already has become law" by using scarce taxpayer funds expressly for partisan political purposes at a time when lawmakers are trying to amend the bill. And while the White House claims to be very concerned with the deficits, the new ads – and the past record of opening the spigot of taxpayer money for partisan political purposes – raises questions. First and foremost, does the blatant misuse of taxpayer funds for political purposes violate federal law under 31 USC 1301(a) and 5 USC 7321? Secondly, how much other waste, fraud and abuse is being promoted throughout the government?
THE AD'S DISTORTIONS: The new Medicare ads urge citizens to call 1-800-MEDICARE to hear more about the new law. And in "Big Brother" style, when you call that number you have to actually say out loud "Medicare improvement" in order to get information. The information you then receive is filled with distortions. The hotline claims the new Medicare "is the same Medicare you have always counted on" – failing to disclose that the law includes provisions which try to force more seniors into private HMOs. The hotline claims that seniors will be able to find "immediate savings between 10% to 15% from a new drug discount card program." But the cards, which were written into the bill by one of President Bush's closest business associates, actually do not guarantee any savings at all. The hotline also says the new prescription drug program under Medicare "will provide significant savings for seniors." But as the Center for Economic and Policy Research notes, "seniors in the middle income quintile will pay an average of $1,650 a year in out-of-pocket expenses for prescription drugs in 2006 - a figure nearly 60% more than they paid in 2000."
HHS FUNDS HAVE BEEN RAIDED BEFORE: HHS is the agency charged with helping low-income citizens find health care and social services, which means its funds have been historically shielded from overt politics. But that changed when, last year, the WP reported "the White House billed HHS's Office of Family Assistance $210,000 to help pay for five trips in which President Bush promoted welfare reform at official events and made separate fundraising appearances for GOP candidates." By tapping agencies such as HHS for part of the costs "the president can stay on the campaign trail without socking all the costs to the Republican Party" – instead forcing taxpayers to foot the bill. When HHS was pressed about how much the White House had siphoned off from programs for low-income families and into bankrolling partisan fundraising trips, "they said they could not provide the total scope of White House billing to all of HHS." Meanwhile, the "White House said they were unable to determine the total scope of billings for White House travel costs to other domestic departments."
scat music
Scat. The music of (love?) uh, something. Who listens to "scat" and enjoys it? Show of hands? Ha! I've always suspected this! Scat music is what the deejay plays, and which everybody out there in radioland tolerates because it isn't going to kill them, and everybody assumes that someone somewhere is reeeally diggin' it. But they're not. End the madness, people. "Shoo-by twiddlypop doobop shewobby sabba-scoooooo!" (Go ahead and sing that. I did. It doesn't sound any dumber than the radio version.) Screw off, scat people. Get another hobby.
On the way to Las Vegas last month, we had a flight delay. Chicago was snowed in and we had to wait a day to leave. That was, um, crappy. On the way to the bar (quickly please), I remembered there were five steps to the grieving process: Numbness, Denial and Isolation, Anger, Depression, and Acceptance. Knowing that these are the five phases, I hoped, would short-circuit the process and take me straight to the Acceptance bit, but that's not how it works. Instead it just adds another phase to the coping cycle: New-age philosophy derangement, or, Confusion.
The field of psychiatry has brought us no closer to a quick and useful tool for personal empowerment, which you'd think would be the goal. What it has brought us is a nomenclature that enables caregivers to be total smartasses who are always right.
I had a dream that I had a liver transplant. My girlfriend was one of the nurses. They cut me open like a grape. I had this gash down my right side, looked like a hot dog that'd been in the microwave too long. I kept trying to get her over there to talk and hang out with me but she had to work. I was on drugs in the dream too. Ever have those? Where everything goes woozy? Why can't dreams be lucid all the time and involve what you want them to, like the Olsen twins in catsuits, maybe throw in a little flying, anything but a f-in' liver transplant. Maybe a little drugged-ness is built into people. I spend my work day at a high alertness level, so maybe because only in my dreams can I get my substance fix, I have these sleepy dreams with smeared colors and sounds like the inside of a closet.
The field of psychiatry has brought us no closer to a quick and useful tool for personal empowerment, which you'd think would be the goal. What it has brought us is a nomenclature that enables caregivers to be total smartasses who are always right.
I had a dream that I had a liver transplant. My girlfriend was one of the nurses. They cut me open like a grape. I had this gash down my right side, looked like a hot dog that'd been in the microwave too long. I kept trying to get her over there to talk and hang out with me but she had to work. I was on drugs in the dream too. Ever have those? Where everything goes woozy? Why can't dreams be lucid all the time and involve what you want them to, like the Olsen twins in catsuits, maybe throw in a little flying, anything but a f-in' liver transplant. Maybe a little drugged-ness is built into people. I spend my work day at a high alertness level, so maybe because only in my dreams can I get my substance fix, I have these sleepy dreams with smeared colors and sounds like the inside of a closet.
Tuesday
Intellectual property almost causes nuclear war
Teen hacker triggered nuclear terrorism alertMcElroy wanted to use the advanced network's power to download and store films and music from the internet.
I think most people would rather forget about this guy than memorialize him.
I wonder how many times this poor bastard had to sing that awful song "Chantilly lace".
Not too many, because he wanted to go to the doctor so Waylon Jennings gave him his seat on the plane which crashed, killing him, Ritchie Valens, Buddy Holly, and some other guys, but still, too many.
At least he wasn't Percy Sledge, who for his entire career, had to belt out "When a man loves a woman". You'd think a man's throat would stop working after too much of that song.
porkins
(((Image removed, because Dale is a considerate guy)))Porkins, or as I like to call him, "Red Six", was a x-wing fighter pilot who died bravely in the first star wars movie. He was played by William Hootkins. Damn, that's funny.
His famous line? "I can hold it."
Operation Northwoods And The Reichstag Fire
"Please don't take my word for it. Make up your own mind, don't let the government or press make it for you. I'm not a journalist. I don't have insider knowledge. I'm just a concerned citizen with a modem who is worried about what is happening to our country. I've included every reference and source I used at the end of every article. I've intentionally relied on well-known respectable news sources. Most of these are available online. Please, please, please, go check them out yourself, and don't let your political or patriotic feelings get in the way."
You'll never hear a neo-con say "don't take my word for it", because the places they get their information (entertainment) don't tell them that , either.
"Please don't take my word for it. Make up your own mind, don't let the government or press make it for you. I'm not a journalist. I don't have insider knowledge. I'm just a concerned citizen with a modem who is worried about what is happening to our country. I've included every reference and source I used at the end of every article. I've intentionally relied on well-known respectable news sources. Most of these are available online. Please, please, please, go check them out yourself, and don't let your political or patriotic feelings get in the way."
You'll never hear a neo-con say "don't take my word for it", because the places they get their information (entertainment) don't tell them that , either.
Between bald tires, running out of gas, killing my battery, and heaps of snow like suffocating pillows, I was ready tonight to put a sign on my car that said: "Free! The keys are in it!"
Instead I parked it somewhere where it might get towed anyway. Ah, the joys of owning things that own you back.
Sidewalks, let's face it, are for second-class citizens. They're piled high with slippy snow-chunks, but the streets are wide open and ready for love. So I walked home in the street, and the cars went right by. We might should try a walk in the street day. Yeah, it's a spinoff of critical mass, but it would make people reconsider the public spaces. And bicycles... too political. I mean, who would ride one of those? It's almost unpatriotic, not to mention hippielike.
Instead I parked it somewhere where it might get towed anyway. Ah, the joys of owning things that own you back.
Sidewalks, let's face it, are for second-class citizens. They're piled high with slippy snow-chunks, but the streets are wide open and ready for love. So I walked home in the street, and the cars went right by. We might should try a walk in the street day. Yeah, it's a spinoff of critical mass, but it would make people reconsider the public spaces. And bicycles... too political. I mean, who would ride one of those? It's almost unpatriotic, not to mention hippielike.
duh
The one sentence response to the right wing borg who has now decided that poor Bush was duped by the CIA:But then why did Dick Cheney need to create an entire parallel intelligence apparatus under Doug Feith dedicated exclusively to explaining why the CIA was underestimating Iraq's WMD capacity?
the greatest idea I've ever had
And I'm giving it away, for free, right now. Because somebody needs to do it immediately.It's the anti-chick tract! With titles like:
"You wasted your life!"
"People came from monkeys"
"Science is real"
"Mr. Fritz speaks his mind" in which Mr. Fritz preaches about god and passersby ignore him.
"Obey your husband?" in which a woman assesses what her life would be like if she did that.
"Thou shalt not kill", in which America's foreign policy is judged by its wacky relationship to the ten commandments
and so on.
"Superstitious much?" in which we follow a day in the lives of two people, one who thinks about god all day and one who doesn't.
Ask my brother Joe. He'll tell ya all about it.
Fun, fun, fun.
Sad Songs are the keys that unlock tears from Eye Jail.
It's time for the poison smores! Get 'em while they're poisony, that's when they're best.
A lot of people think a lot of things about Hawaii.
Like a swan...like a pregnant swan.
Mother is the necessity of invention.
its made with spider sugar, doesn't hurt the spiders.
I'm strong, like the hulk!
You can't trust a man what's made o' gas.
I know how it feels.... I'm 7 feet tall.
What's wrong, Philouza? A few too many of Mr. Graham's crackers?
People selling people to people.
It tastes just like Ice Cream! Rock & Roll Double Chunk'. It has chocolate in it, and we figure if people like rock and roll music, they'll like this, cause it says 'Rock & Roll' on it.
Now you know the Rules, just go have some sex.
And that's why we have nitrogen!
As mayor of the altered state of druggachusettes, I declare this pizza to be. awesome.
It's time for the poison smores! Get 'em while they're poisony, that's when they're best.
A lot of people think a lot of things about Hawaii.
Like a swan...like a pregnant swan.
Mother is the necessity of invention.
its made with spider sugar, doesn't hurt the spiders.
I'm strong, like the hulk!
You can't trust a man what's made o' gas.
I know how it feels.... I'm 7 feet tall.
What's wrong, Philouza? A few too many of Mr. Graham's crackers?
People selling people to people.
It tastes just like Ice Cream! Rock & Roll Double Chunk'. It has chocolate in it, and we figure if people like rock and roll music, they'll like this, cause it says 'Rock & Roll' on it.
Now you know the Rules, just go have some sex.
And that's why we have nitrogen!
As mayor of the altered state of druggachusettes, I declare this pizza to be. awesome.
Monday
get over it
Janet Jackson's top came off rather better than it was supposed to at halftime last night, introducing something realistic into the rehashed mtv-anthems of days past: embarrassment.We've all been there, Janet. Granted, most of us weren't rewarming a fifteen-year old song at the super bowl while being felt up by someone who could be our son when it happened, but we too have felt silly. Ok, and most people don't have their nipples pierced with a shuriken, either. And we aren't related to you-know-who, but still!! I think instead of alienating people with that risky PR move, you've become one of us. Us being rich, nose-job-getting, armor-plated nipple ninja negroes from the outer industrial pop music zones. Yeah, you can pretty much break bread with us any time you want to swing by. I'll invite the local council of this "rhythm nation", and all us "black cats" will dance the night away like real "bad boys". Wait, bad boys was Gloria Estefan and the miami sound machine. Oh well.
More proof that information is absorbed in inverse proportion to its predictability. When Justin Timberlake dances around, it's tedious. When Christina Aguilera exercises her sphincter on MTV, we mimic it, and yawn. But seeing a boob slip at the super bowl, we notice.
NSFW picture of nude female
a game so nice i posted it here... submarine
Commune dreams are the scariest.
Last night I went to visit my brothers and they lived in this cooperative commune. It's just this expansive house and everybody shares a room with somebody else. You can't live alone. My youngest brother stays in a room with a guy named Brandon. And since everybody does according to their ability, my brothers do more than anybody else. It's stupid. I don't care for the name Brandon. Come to think of it, I've never met anyone named that.
Most of the dreams I have like that, my brothers are coming to visit me somewhere. The last one, I was a waiter and I lived in a little room and all I ate was cans of nutritive white bean paste. They tried to get me out of there, but I wouldn't go. There was an element of my not believing there could be more to what was happening than this little world wherein no one wore shoes, just filthy socks. An interesting component to this dream was that every person who lived this lifestyle, the proletariat if you will, played a game, sort of like a tamagotchi (an electronic pet on a keychain). We all automatically went to the screen a couple times a day and watered our artificial plants, and things like that. This could easily have been because nobody had much of anything at all in reality, and the power of folklore of the way things used to be might incite a riot, so it was replaced with an e-life. Also, this was the dream where once a year, the people from the village set up shop in the valley, only no one comes to buy anything. It's just for tradition that we set up shop, and there are rumors that the Hendersons (ostensibly feudal lords) are not too far away, and this year we may actually see them. We are so thankful that the Hendersons make our wee pitiful existences possible that we pour out our gratitude by doing this shop-fair for them annually.
The strangest dream is one where I live in an apartment complex called "symbol", then I get in my tiny car and go to the "symbol" gas station. On the way I pass "symbol" mini-storage, and "symbol" shopping center. That one's crazy. Not that it needed any more material, but at the symbol apartment complex there was a big stink because two separate law enforcement agencies were trying to arrest officers from the other, because of a prostitution entrapment scheme gone bizarre. One was trying to arrest the other for being a prostitute, the prostitute was trying to arrest the john, then the john's people tried to arrest the prostitute's people for pimping, then the others tried to arrest the john's people for violating the contract. It was an arms race of mediocre minds and falstaffian proportions, escalating to absurdity.
Last night I went to visit my brothers and they lived in this cooperative commune. It's just this expansive house and everybody shares a room with somebody else. You can't live alone. My youngest brother stays in a room with a guy named Brandon. And since everybody does according to their ability, my brothers do more than anybody else. It's stupid. I don't care for the name Brandon. Come to think of it, I've never met anyone named that.
Most of the dreams I have like that, my brothers are coming to visit me somewhere. The last one, I was a waiter and I lived in a little room and all I ate was cans of nutritive white bean paste. They tried to get me out of there, but I wouldn't go. There was an element of my not believing there could be more to what was happening than this little world wherein no one wore shoes, just filthy socks. An interesting component to this dream was that every person who lived this lifestyle, the proletariat if you will, played a game, sort of like a tamagotchi (an electronic pet on a keychain). We all automatically went to the screen a couple times a day and watered our artificial plants, and things like that. This could easily have been because nobody had much of anything at all in reality, and the power of folklore of the way things used to be might incite a riot, so it was replaced with an e-life. Also, this was the dream where once a year, the people from the village set up shop in the valley, only no one comes to buy anything. It's just for tradition that we set up shop, and there are rumors that the Hendersons (ostensibly feudal lords) are not too far away, and this year we may actually see them. We are so thankful that the Hendersons make our wee pitiful existences possible that we pour out our gratitude by doing this shop-fair for them annually.
The strangest dream is one where I live in an apartment complex called "symbol", then I get in my tiny car and go to the "symbol" gas station. On the way I pass "symbol" mini-storage, and "symbol" shopping center. That one's crazy. Not that it needed any more material, but at the symbol apartment complex there was a big stink because two separate law enforcement agencies were trying to arrest officers from the other, because of a prostitution entrapment scheme gone bizarre. One was trying to arrest the other for being a prostitute, the prostitute was trying to arrest the john, then the john's people tried to arrest the prostitute's people for pimping, then the others tried to arrest the john's people for violating the contract. It was an arms race of mediocre minds and falstaffian proportions, escalating to absurdity.
T.G.I.Friday's
This really happened, all of it.I got a job at Friday's when nobody else would hire me in 1999, when, let's just say because I was going through a phase with my appearance, it was either Friday's or a life of crime to get by. They made me train for two weeks before I even got to work. To be a waiter, I had to learn and take tests about everything on the menu. I knew all 9 layers of the 9-layer dip. I knew the ingredients to various alcoholic ("we prefer the term "spirited!"") and non-, beverages. I had to learn the procedures, the computer, the dress code. By the end of those two glorious income-free weeks I was down to a delicous package of ramen noodles and no fucking money.
One of the stories my now friend Ben H., who worked there at the time, told me when he was training me in, was about the pins the management gives out for special jobs people do. You know, when they go the extra mile. I was already intimate with the famous american intangible benefits package, but surprisingly, I still had health insurance left over from my last job, and as he spoke it was crossing my mind that that package would cover intravenous nutrition in case I collapsed from malnutrition. I almost didn't notice what he was telling me about the way he got his "sanitation" pin, but as Eddie Murphy and Mike Myers know all too well, sewage is an attention getter. According to Ben, the sewer backed up and it bubbled up out of the floor and spread all over the restaurant one afternoon. They kicked the customers out and all the waitstaff mopped it up and the place was clean in time for dinner. Heartwarming. Just so you know, it's the one in the City Center in Minneapolis. The same one in which a cockroach fell out of the ceiling and onto one of my customers. He didn't eat lunch, but everybody else at the table did. They offered him a free dessert for his trauma, which he declined.
Anyway, the first night I got to work was a Saturday. They put me in crack alley, which is what servers call the smoking section. I worked hard, being nice to people who hated whites, sucking up for a dollar here and a dollar there, and the night, though very busy, was going pretty well. At one point a table of eight people, whose total was a hundred and ten or twenty bucks, got up and left, and when I went back to the table, the money that diners customarily exchange for their meal, was gone. I immediately told my manager about it, and he said we'd deal with it later, and the night went on, until the lights were back on and the place was clean. The servers all grabbed a seat and were doing their checkouts, organizing the money, stamping the checks, and making sure the totals added up right from the credit card receipts, and so did I.
So I went to the manager, and gave him my paperwork. He informed me that there really wasn't anything he could do about it, that he couldn't be sure that I hadn't been the one who had taken the money, so he was taking the total from what I made. After that, despite my slinging over a thousand dollars in fried nastiness, I made nothing. By the way, math scholars, that does come out to something less than fifteen per cent on the night. After I told my incredible story to the bartender, who didn't believe it either, the barback, Jake, came and told me that I should tip the bar staff out of my own pocket, because they worked hard for me all night, and that they weren't going to like it if I didn't. So I shrugged, left, and walked home, because I couldn't afford a cab and it was so late the buses had stopped running. I had to go back to work though, which must have had the effect of convincing the employees that I had stolen the money that night, because who would ever come back to work in a place that screwed you like that? The bartenders and their punk bitch Jake treated me like total shit after that night, which means the whole time I worked there. Assholes.
Let's see, what else? There was the nine millimeter bullet I found in my locker when I went to put on my flair (look it up if you somehow still don't know what flair is) before a shift. The manager later let me know that he had informed the appropriate parties. Whatever.
Once I had a customer (The manager, during training: "some people call them customers, but we call them guests, so we treat them like they're a guest in our own home!") who changed her baby's diaper right there on the table, that was nice. It's a boy! Good for you! Would you like me to dispose of your adorable child's poopy? After all, you are my guest. How else may I serve you?
The hot bacon mustard salad dressing was the worst part of waking up. The day didn't really begin until you smelled that vomit. We had to nucrawave it and then put it where it would stay hot. I think it went on the cajun chicken salad.
This was in '99, so the music that played in the restaurant was on the hottest hits channel of DMX, digital music express, a cable music service. "Blue (da ba dee)" by Eiffel 65, "Take a picture" by Filter, and "It feels so good" by Sonique were especially memorable. When I hear those songs even now, I can smell the bubblin' hot bacony barf. Fuck. Looking back, all this makes me really mad.
Fast forward to last year. I wanted to do a column for a local paper called "Minneapolis's bravest restaurant critic", wherein I would review and write up places that scored the lowest on their sanitation reviews by the health department. How could that NOT cause a sensation? Obviously, not even the health department was anxious to help me out with that one. But I did learn a couple of things trying to get information, one, that it's damn near impossible to get any information to begin with, and two, there are different kinds of violations. The main two kinds are critical and non-critical. These are pretty boring. There's a review process that can be dragged out almost forever; if you want to build a filth-hole and sell food out of it, Minneapolis is the place for you. No, the violations I was interested in were the ones that cause the restaurant to close its doors, not if you don't fix something, but right fucking now, buh-bye. Once Tim Jenkins, the health department guy, told me the first two, I was too lost in thought to continue with the research for this column, which I had determined was an impossibility from a research perspective. Can you guess what those two things were? If you answered raw sewage on the floor and cockroach infestation, you were right. I just chuckled. That place got a little too close to me and I wanted no part of it in any way ever again.
So that's about it for that place except for one thing. I did ten days in jail once and the first day after I got out I thought I was still there when I woke up. After that it stopped, no bad dreams, nothing. Friday's, on the other hand, is still there in my sleep. I frequently dream that I am in the restaurant and when I try to get out, it opens into another one, and then another and another. It's like the twilight zone of perpetual T. G. I. Friday's. In his day, Rod Serling was great. We don't need guys like that any more, because reality has become scary enough.
Sunday
MyDoom knocks out SCO Web site Mission accomplished.
I had a dream that the summer was almost over and that I hadn't been able to enjoy it as much as I'd like because I worked too much. It's not hard to figure out what my subconscious has to say about my job.
Car Talk has switched to Windows Media player...
Here's the problem. In order to hear our audio, you have to go to Real.com and download their "free" RealPlayer. But when you get to the web site, the free player is harder to find than Osama Bin Laden at night. And the site seems to do everything it possibly can to get you to "buy" a player instead. You have to work very hard to get the free player. And we think that stinks. And get this. It stinks so much that it even makes Microsoft look good by comparison. That's something, huh?
Here's the problem. In order to hear our audio, you have to go to Real.com and download their "free" RealPlayer. But when you get to the web site, the free player is harder to find than Osama Bin Laden at night. And the site seems to do everything it possibly can to get you to "buy" a player instead. You have to work very hard to get the free player. And we think that stinks. And get this. It stinks so much that it even makes Microsoft look good by comparison. That's something, huh?
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