Last night I watched my second episode of Bravo's Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and I have to admit that I adore the show. In fact, I commented that "gays are the best" aloud. And if recent "buzz," as measured by Entertainment Weekly's "Hot List" and TV Guide blurbs, is to be believed, I'm not the only one.
What's not to love, America? A group of gay men, the most innocuous and non-threatening of put-upon minorities (except perhaps Koreans,) flits about, poking fun at the mainstream and generally proving their lifestyle to be a big, superficial party. "We are family! I got all my sisters and me!"
At some point this morning, blammo! Brainstorm, people. The image of a black-faced vaudevillian popped into my head. He was dancing and singing and cracking jokes about watermelons and chicken as though he didn't have a care in the world. He seemed so carefree and innocent. Almost childlike.
It was from that image that I birthed the idea for Negro Eye for the White Guy: First, you find five adorable Negroes. It's tough for most regular folks to tell them apart, I know, so you differentiate them based on certain Negro-specific specialties. For example, one could be a great dancer. One might be a good singer. Another could be a terrific athlete. Um. Then you find two more things that Negroes are good at.
Next, you unleash this unlikely crew on a white guy, and let them "advise" him on how to do things! Talk about wacky! Negroes giving a white fella advice! The world turned upside down, and the belly laughs come fast and furious!
Analogcabin @ 3:08 PM ------------------------- When it comes to the distribution of government funds, everyone's a fucking expert. "Life begins at conception," whine the Pro Lifers when the National Science Foundation underwrites the vivisection of Asian toddlers by a bunch of gay, pinko doctor genetics researchers at Stanford. "You can't censor expression," cries the the performance artist after the NEA pulls funding for his piece involving the dissemination of the live SARS virus throughout an elementary school in Saratoga Springs, New York.
Analogcabin @ 11:14 AM ------------------------- Analogcabin @ 10:53 AM ------------------------- There's a fascinating AP article floating around on the internet today; it was brought to my attention by the lovely ladies at MSNBC.com. In a nutshell, it tells the story of a man who was "cured" of pedophilia when a tumor was removed from his brain. Essentially, what happened is that the once tame libido of this father and schoolteacher became more and more feral as the tumor grew, cutting off bloodflow to the frontal lobe of his brain. At first he collected smut mags, then he began visiting pedophilic websites, and eventually he made sexual advances toward his step-daughter and threatened to rape his landlady. As you might have guessed, his behavior didn't sit well with his wife. He was arrested, convicted, and sentenced to a rehabilitation program for sex addicts. He flunked out of the program and was preparing to go to jail when he was admitted to the hospital complaining of headaches and suicidal urges. The tumor was found and removed, and the urges vanished.
Analogcabin @ 11:27 AM ------------------------- Finally, proof that hope does not spring eternal. Analogcabin @ 7:05 AM ------------------------- Let's say you're a pine marten.
Analogcabin @ 7:55 AM ------------------------- Reuters reports today's biggest story, headlined "Cheech and Chong Take Another Hit."
Analogcabin @ 10:32 AM ------------------------- Two things bring smiles to me chocolate-covered fache this afternoon: there's Neil Pollack's discourse on Kobe Bryant's once almost white, now very black genitals, and there's this Electric Six video. Analogcabin @ 1:14 PM ------------------------- I know that some of you tune in to The Spoonbender for my insightful and astonishingly brilliant take on the day's news items, and I know that others love me for highly erotic prose. Still others are obsessed with my body, for it is highly sexy.
Analogcabin @ 9:56 AM ------------------------- The drive from Granville to Chicago takes seven hours, and you get an hour back from the time zone. Yesterday it took longer because of traffic caused by the worst accident I've ever seen.
Analogcabin @ 7:52 AM ------------------------- Finally, we can keep track of all those pesky Mexicans. Thank you, Scientists! Analogcabin @ 7:29 AM ------------------------- I have a hunch that this press release heralds nothing, but woe unto viewers if it does.
Analogcabin @ 8:11 AM ------------------------- There's so much bad news today, I don't even know where to begin.
Analogcabin @ 3:14 PM ------------------------- Apparently, there's this stuff floating around in the internet called "Spyware." These "Bots" somehow attach themselves to your microchips, determine the least optimal moment, and flood your comp-uter screen with hundreds upon hundreds of windows filled with pussies, cocks, and boobies.
Analogcabin @ 12:14 PM ------------------------- In my life, I've probably spent too much time thinking about what I'd do in the event of an apocalyptic event that left the land lawless. I'm not sure why. I think about it on my own, and I involve friends. Once, I engaged mi amigo Joel in an hours-long discussion of the topic that ended in an argument over whether Andy, a mutual friend, was stable enough to be left alive. We never came to a conclusion, as I recall, but it helped pass time on a drive from Pittsburgh to the Detroit area.
Analogcabin @ 1:46 PM ------------------------- There's a large hole in the street where I live and I don't think it's a pothole. My understanding is that a pothole is a void in the first layer of road pavement; they are generally one to six inches in depth and often caused by plows. The hole that concerns me is more like a sinkhole. The pavement appears to have collapsed, revealing a vacancy beneath that is about two feet deep. Since it's only about two feet in diameter, it is a pothole prima facia. I'm sure you can imagine the problems this causes drivers, and the damage it causes cars.
Analogcabin @ 8:18 AM ------------------------- Blogging from the new Apple store in Chicago.
Analogcabin @ 10:39 AM ------------------------- I find the type of behavior I'm about to indulge in irritating. Nonetheless....
Analogcabin @ 9:52 AM ------------------------- Nothing depresses me more than desperate machinations because, unless they're Houdini's, they don't usually work out. But desperation moves were an everyday occurrence growing up in Buffalo. It wasn't the people, individually speaking... at least not those around me. It was the city itself -- the Population, the History, The Chip on The Shoulder, The Economic Condition, and The Reputation working in concert to function as one clumsey and cancered organism. When the steel industry took a dump, the city began shrinking. It's still shrinking today, as far as I know. Plans are hatched. Funds are allocated. Stadiums are built. Nothing works, because they're all desperation moves.
Analogcabin @ 11:30 AM ------------------------- CNN reports that doctors have discovered that non-identical, or fraternal, twins can, in fact, share a placenta. Apparently, this is not what they thought previously.
Analogcabin @ 7:03 AM ------------------------- Linking to the Reverse Cowgirl Blog again today really seems like a bad idea to me. I've admitted before that I read the RCB regularly and, while I generally find it satisfying, there are painful moments. It's like picking scabs. I'm compelled strongly, and doing it leaves me relieved, if bloody and guilt-ridden.
Analogcabin @ 7:34 AM ------------------------- To be honest, yesterday was a little slow. I think I felt let down by reality after a long weekend away from it, and so it was with eagerness that I logged into There. It's not so much escape that attracted me as the hope that 5:15 would come a little quicker than evidence gathered up to 2 indicated it would.
Analogcabin @ 7:59 AM ------------------------- So now we're in Liberia, and I'm probably not the only one who's confused by the whole bit.
Analogcabin @ 12:21 PM ------------------------- I'll admit that I'm no expert in carjacking. But I can say with certainty that a three foot sword is a shitty choice of weapon for getting the job done. The problem is that the sword is going to be very difficult to brandish menacingly through the window. Like I said, I'm no expert, but if there's one thing you need to be able to do in a carjacking, it's brandish menacingly.
Analogcabin @ 8:32 AM ------------------------- Continuing with yesterday's mysteriously dead animal theme, CNN reports that Chilean scientists are baffled by an unidentifiable mass of "decomposing lumpy, grey flesh" that's washed ashore on some beach.
Analogcabin @ 7:32 AM ------------------------- It's a time a reflection, now that my dalliance with internet fame has come and gone. The affair was brief and unfulfilling, as affairs tends to be with me, and what should have been the best parts were spent wracked with guilt, also standard of my amorous play. All in all, it was remotely pleasurable yet wholly unsatisfying.
Analogcabin @ 2:34 PM ------------------------- According to this article, more than 40 mutilated cats have been discovered in Denver's suburbs over the past year. That could be as many as 360 cat-lives lost -- almost a cat-life per day for a year. Upon first blush, this is a tragedy of the bring-you-to-your-knees-raise-your-fists-to-the-sky-and-shake-'em variety. The fear in Denver (and Salt Lake City, plagued with about 10 cat-mutiliations this past year) is that there's a serial cat killer on the loose.
Analogcabin @ 9:54 AM ------------------------- If there's one thing Kraft Foods is concerned with, it's you -- the fat-bodied consumer. In a move that, if not in direct response to, is at least inspired by a recent lawsuit filed over the human inflation potential of Oreos, the company has announced smaller single serving packages. This is a perfect example of the market responding to the stupid consumer's demands, as articulated by conscienceless lawyers filing on behalf of easily-led fatties who are angry they can't get dates. Bob Kraft, CEO of Kraft Industries International, said, "Awesome. We get to charge the same for fewer Oreos, and act like we're doing the world a favor." Analogcabin @ 9:22 AM -------------------------
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Wednesday, July 30, 2003
Generally speaking, I'm fairly comfortable with pretty much anyone getting government money to do anything. It's not like it's my money, right? Even those geologists that spent a year comparing the Kansas landscape to a pancake. Go ahead, take the money, you fucking nerds. You can't buy your way out of Geek Town, dorks! How 'bout them pancakes?
But there are some things that even I just don't cotton. Looking for the Loch Ness Monster? What's next? Spectum analysis of the Shroud of Turin? Who can I write to? Who's the congressman for England?
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Monday, July 28, 2003
Read the article for yourself, but there's not much more to the story than that. In the article, anyway. My hunch is that there's a sad bit of story the vaguely gleeful AP science writer left out. The part about how this man's life was likely ruined. According to the article, he moved back in with his wife once it was determined that the tumor was to blame for his behavior, but it's difficult to imagine that his relationship will survive. Especially since doctors, even in this article, talk about the tumor preventing his ability to repress urges that may have already been present. I doubt that, for his wife and daughter, it's about the tumor and the frontal lobe and his "executive function" impairment. It's that the urges were there in the first place, no matter how deeply buried. It's the same for his employer and coworkers, as well, I'd guess. It's about how the urges might be there still. I suspect he'll be known as a pedophile, not a brain tumor survivor.
The article touches on the impact this case could have on the justice system, not to mention the questions it raises for neurologists, psychologists, and philosophers about free will, instinct, and all that nature or nurture crap. Those issues are very interesting to me, though I'm certain that I'm entirely ill-equipped to get into that here. What else I find interesting, and more than a little tragic, is that this man was rendered biologically incapable of exercising judgment and morality he may well possess. This lump in his brain forced him to reveal something he might not have even known was there. Now and forever, though, there will be questions as to what this guy is really thinking when he's looking at his step-daughter.
I don't know how we, as people, should deal with something like this. On one hand, I know that this man can't be held accountable for his behavior, and I hope that he's accepted back into society without reservation. On the other hand, I know that won't, or maybe can't happen, because doing so would require an admission that there could be some really terrible things buried in the psyche of any of us.
Is a pedophile or murderer or rapist someone who does it, talks about it, thinks it, or someone in whose head it's there, laying dormant until the day something jars it free?
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Thursday, July 24, 2003
No. You're a bear. That's easier. You're a bear, and you've always lived in a park. Like Yogi. And you've always eaten trash and stolen food from campers and masturbated freely and pooped wherever you want.
This isn't working.
Instead, suppose that you're in charge of maintaining the nutritional fortitude of McDonald's breakfast menu offerings, and that you have been since the genesis of McDonald's breakfast service. For years you stood by in the face of a McEscalation -- simple Pancakes were supplemented by Danishes. Eventually the Big Breakfast appeared, and that gave way to McMuffins, which begat Hash Browns and Breakfast Biscuits. You were silent, and that was your approval. Hell, you even enjoyed a sausage McMuffin with Egg every now and again.
Then, one day, a McGriddle crossed your desk. "This," thought you, "goes too far." "You call this a breakfast item? It's a half-baked rehash completely lacking in genuine inspiration." You screamed and yelled at the McGriddle, its creators, and its fans. "The McGriddle is an affront to the breakfast menu and an insult to genuine breakfast sandwiches like the Bacon, Egg, and Cheese Biscuit!" But it was you. You allowed it to happen.
Outrageous, right? "Not me," you might be thinking. No, no. Not you, my child. It's what's called an "allegory." That means it's a story about something that's really about something else. Take a closer look at my expertly crafted "allegory." Don't be distracted by the flowery prose and big penis subtext, no matter how difficult that might be. You see, it's not only about McDonald's. Not really. It's about the AP's Lynn Elber.
Lots of people have been engaging in the above discussed brand of absentee paternalism with television these days, and the unfortunate McGriddles are the stars of reality shows -- easy targets, as they're often stupid, condemned to life with no showbiz future, and therefore safe to pick on for writers who usually beg interviews off of "serious artists" like Tea Leoni. The so-called "Lynn Elber" just happens to be the one that caught my eye today.
It's the premise of her "commentary" that I find absurd. The headline is "Become Famous, No Talent Necessary." As though this latest crop of reality stars (she singles out Paris Hilton in particular) is somehow less deserving of fame than Cameron Diaz or Keanu Reeves, and that the fact they they have or will attain fame is unfair. Somebody calls it the commodification of fame, though I don't know who.
Maybe I'd chaff at the inflation of fame if I made my living trading on that commodity, too.
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Wednesday, July 23, 2003
In related news, Reuters also reports that Qusay and Uday Also Take a Hit.
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Tuesday, July 22, 2003
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Today, though, I'm going to take it downtown. So pull your aqualine noses out of your fancy schoolbooks, my highly educated and vaguely poncey readers, and drop the pretentious accent -- I'm about to sing the praises of The Restaurant. It's NBC's new reality show, and it's a hit in my book.
It should be understood that, since I got TiVO, I watch most of the reality shows. Why does that need to be understood? I don't know. Perhaps so that you'll fully grasp the depth of my despair. Regardless, I eagerly anticipated The Restaurant because I like restaurants and reality shows. And believe you me, the season premiere had both -- restaurant and reality show.
I realize now that my best intentions, the only thing with which I began writing this post, weren't enough. I don't care to review the episode because, in retrospect, it wasn't all that great. It was good, and I enjoyed it, but it certainly doesn't warrant reviewing.
I am, ladies and gentlemen, spastic.
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Monday, July 21, 2003
Movement westbound stopped somewhere close to Dayton. After a couple of minutes, I pulled onto the shoulder to see what I could see. The line of cars stretched down into a hollow ahead, back up the hill and out of view. It was a couple of miles, anyway. Eastbound traffic was fine, even sparse. This is generally a recipe for me losing my shit -- screaming, chain smoking, and scanning local news radio for some indication of when it might end -- but I was relatively calm. My girlfriend was asleep, which prevented any real epithet shouting, and the Dayton Air Show was going on. The Blue Angels kept flying back and forth over the interstate, and that was vaguely interesting. Plus, someone on Fort Wayne's WOWO was talking about Kobe.
I held it together for an hour or so, and then I saw some cop cars and hub bub. The accident was on the eastbound side, and it was grisly. I looked as we passed by and saw roughly the same image pictured in the above article, except when I saw it there was a leg hanging out of the door.
And some point yesterday afternoon I decided I want a CB.
It's odd that I was relatively unshaken after seeing that crash yesterday, but were it an analogous scenario involving air travel, I don't think I'd ever fly again.
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Friday, July 18, 2003
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Thursday, July 17, 2003
It's not because I don't think Will Wright, creator of The Sims and SimCity, is creative. I think it'd be tough to argue that he's not. But what in his oeuvre suggests that he's versatile? Maybe there's a vault buried deep within Maxis. Maybe it's just bursting with sculpture, beautiful etudes, grand and artful manuscripts, precise sonnets, and insightful histories. Maybe Fox found the vault, opened the vault, stood in awe of the trove, and offered Will a development deal.
Or, maybe Will's talent ranges from macro-simulation to micro-simulation. To paraphrase Noah Baumbach, maybe Wright's genius spans "...from here to the dance floor."
Because expansive genius and remarkable talent is what it requires to develop television shows. I know, because I watch Fox.
I used to work at a company in LA. We were an interactive television company in name, though we mostly goofed around and waited for the VC to run out. I was Creative Director, which means I surfed the web and argued with the Executive Producer most of the day. About what? Stuff like The Weakest Link online, of course. You don't reach that pinnacle of entertainment awesomeness and win a coveted Bandie without busting some head bones in the process.
So while we were not quite paying the bills with play-along gameshows, we also did some consulting on and pitching of Interactive Television Programming. Then we branched out into Regular Television Programming. By the time the company went kerplunk we had produced No Television Programming.
Though nothing came of anything during that time, I did get to have countless wonderful meetings and lunches with all kinds of swells. Some of them were impressive, sharp, and creative. Most of them were dull-witted, easily-distracted, and well-dressed. I know I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said about TV executives before. And I'm only saying it partially out of spite over TV riches I richly deserved but was denied.
In 30 seconds anyone you meet on the street could come up with five ideas better than most of what's on today. It's not about genius. The genius is convincing these TV people that you know something they don't. Will did it by selling millions of games, and probably none of those to the TV people.
It's clear, though, that, no matter who's name is on it, something bad happens between the press release and the product.
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Wednesday, July 16, 2003
OK. Now I know. The coup in Sao Tome left me intellectually bewildered and emotionally shattered, as I'm sure it did you. Even now, the minions of Major Fernando Pereira are working hard to contact Richard Dreyfuss. I think I speak for everyone when I say that I hope he's available to step in, pose as de Menezes, and quell the Sao Tomian public's outcry.
Then there's the 100 Indians killed in a flash flood. To think, a sudden downpour during monsoon season in a flood-ravaged province swept away a tent city. Who could have predicted that? Those who know me know how loathe I am to indict countries or entire cultures based on limited or no personal experience, so they'll know how difficult I find it to say the following: This is just another pebble on the mountain of evidence that India is the worst place on Earth. And I thought last week's Amazing Race sealed the deal.
And now I see that some ne'er-drive-well has barreled into Santa Monica's farmer's market, hitting about 40 people. People in LA drive everywhere.
Some good news, though -- the Chinese are staying poor! Hee-haw!
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Tuesday, July 15, 2003
"Manna from heaven," you say. "Praise be to The Maker."
Under normal circumstances, I'd concur, except that my workplace is not quite like the primate exhibit -- spontaneous masturbation is, apparently, not encouraged.
It took the entirety of the morning, but good old Zain and I were able to vanquish the smut-slinging foe. The fight has left me tired.
I've learned never to install software containing the words "Whazit" or "nCase." Those are baddies. I've also learned another reason to love Apple -- no one cares enough to write this shit for Macs.
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Monday, July 14, 2003
For the record, I've changed my position on Andy. We'd need him because he can fix cars.
In my hypothetical apocalypses, none of my friends perish. Nothing of consequence is ever really damaged. There just wouldn't be as many people around, I could drive whatever kind of car tickles my apocalyptic fancy, and I wouldn't have a job.
Two things happened this weekend that got me thinking about it again.
First, I went to see 28 Days Later. It wasn't what I expected, but I enjoyed it. Of course, I spent much of my time questioning the uninfected characters' choice of transportation, weaponry, and clothing. The black girl's machete and haircut were sufficiently post-apocalyptic for me, and I thought there was potential in the medically-necessary demi-Mohawk the main character wore in the beginning of the film, but overall I found it to fall far short of the standard set by Mad Max. At least in terms of accessories. If there's one thing the post-apocalyptic man needs, it's a single shoulder pad. Mine would be on the left side.
The second thing that happened this weekend was my discovery of The Fister. The Fister is what you might imagine -- a life-size latex arm, beginning at the elbow and ending in a genderless fist. It's what you'd call a marital aid at the dinner table and an unholy implement of unspeakable sin elsewhere. I didn't discover The Fister in the throes of passion or during a wonderful and terrible practical joke involving a disconnected light switch, a toilet, and Ex-Lax brownies. Instead, I was in the market for some of those fancy souvenir marijuana pipe screens to replace the toddler-aged and tar-impacted souvenir marijuana pipe screen too-long jammed into my souvenir marijuana pipe.
I was accompanied by a friend to the Belmont and Clark area of Chicago -- a neighborhood that's not much more than a city-block-in-diameter Spencer Gifts. After a close-call with some used hats and lice at a thrift store, we stopped into a lovely little boutique called Egor's Dungeon. Egor's not only sells souvenir marijuana-smoking devices and supplies, but also dilrods, dildoes, ramrods, vibrators, buttplugs, lovecorks, pocket rockets, pocket pussies, lovedolls, and all manner of other adult novelties. It's like a five and dime, where the five is the number of D batteries it'll take and dime is as in bag.
Now, I've never owned a sex/head shoppe. I know, I know. This is a shock to some of you, but I haven't. If I did, however, I think I'd do my best to keep the two inventories separated. I've heard that the type of people who shop for souvenir marijuana-smoking sundries tend to point and giggle, and I've heard that the type of people who shop for dildoes tend to wear fake moustaches and pay in cash. It would seem to me that, if I sold to both markets, I'd probably put up a divider or something.
There's no such rationale at Egor's. The rolling papers and souvenir pipes are in the glass counter toward the front door -- a sensible choice. The porn videos are toward the back, which I also support. But the dildoes and dildo-family of products was on a wall rack right behind the cash register, with The Fister front and center. If I'm in the market for The Fister, I'm sure going to feel funny about having to ask the shop clerk across the heads of everyone standing in line to check out.
Later that day, I decided that in the event of an apocalypse, I'd carry The Fister as a weapon. Swing that thing at somebody, and I bet it'd hurt like a motherfucker.
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I felt very satisfied when I reported the hole to both the City of Chicago and my Aldermanic office this morning. Then I realized that I've just done the type of thing usually associated with the elderly.
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Saturday, July 12, 2003
Truly, the future is now. And it is irritating.
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Friday, July 11, 2003
This morning marked yet another chapter in my terrible relationship with 1 Hour Hosting. I'm no wizard, when it comes to "web-mastering," so I often find myself at the mercy of my host. I'd say 1 Hour Hosting is merciless, but that wouldn't be completely accurate. I am inept. They are inepter. I'll spare the details -- the tales of customer technical support woes, shortcomings in their equipment, shortercomings in their employees. Let it suffice to say that when I switched to my current host, Neureal, I was pleased as a porcupine with their everything. Bliss, I tell you. It is bliss. Cancelling 1 Hour Hosting was such a thrill I did it with both email and on the telephone.
You can imagine my dismay when I discovered they just charged me for another year.
I'm about to call the gentleman back to see if he was able to locate my cancellation email in "the folder where they all automatically go into."
I implore you, do not use 1 Hour Hosting. Take the BBB's advice.
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Thursday, July 10, 2003
I picture Buffalo as an emaciated old man, picking at shackles with arthritic fingers while sinking slowly toward the rust-covered floor of Lake Erie. But Buffalo is still picking, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
It's impossible to convince anyone that Buffalo isn't as bad as its reputation, especially after an opening paragraph like the above, but it's not. The downtown is actually quite lovely. The skyline has been left almost completely unscarred by the Miami Vice-era skyscrapers that make downtown LA look so laughable, thanks to the miserable economy and utter lack on interest in urban development. The same goes for the homes -- there's a grandeur and grace to the buildings common to wealthy industrial age cities. Not to mention what's sorely missing from younger cities like Las Vegas and LA -- proximity.
Those things are nice, but the element that's central to what I personally consider Buffalo's biggest boner is that it's home to New York's largest public university. There are more than 17,000 undergrads enrolled at UB and around 8,000 graduate students. That's a whole bunch of exactly the kind of people you want rescusitating your downtown. They have a need for cheap housing, a desire for night life and culture, a need to shop, a tendency to eat our, and a dearth of cars. They're a captive audience, and a ready-made community.
So when the '70's rolled around and it came time to build a new, larger campus for UB, rather than going with proposals to put it downtown, they moved it way out into the suburbs.
The nice thing is, that suburb has really grown. There's a mall out there now. A Fuddruckers and a Hooters, too.
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In related news, other doctors have discovered that conjoined, or Siamese, twins can not, in fact, not share a head.
What does this teach us? That doctors are stupid.
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Wednesday, July 09, 2003
The last time I linked to it (in the midst of a particularly vitriolic fit,) she Technoratied my scrawny ass, called me out, and plunged me to Larry David depths of awkwardness. It's not something I want repeated.
But on the other hand, it's probably absurd of me to assume that, should I link the RCB again, anyone, let alone the authoress, will notice at all. The whole inner-conflict is a fine example of the sixth in The Spoonbender Rules of the Road: "The best acts of cowardice are those birthed from conceit."
In the end, I can't resist. Her tirade today is fascinating. In a minor league sort of way.
It's short, so go read it now. Then come back. Swear you'll come back. I'll wait, because I love you.
There aren't words to express how fully I agree with and appreciate her sentiments on the "self-proclaimed A-list bloggers." There aren't words, but I'll futz with some, anyway.
This "council of elders," some of whom had mitts in the genesis of blogging and others who were merely in the blast radius, has become so thoroughly infatuated with itself and its little fiefdom that the entirety of its output consists of self-promotion. Maybe self-promotion isn't exactly it, and I don't think self-justification is, either. It's as though, if they talk enough about how amazing this blogging thing, some idiot will eventually buy it. It worked in '94. Pets.com, right?
Yeah. Blogging's cool. So's the telephone. Imagine if Edison spent as much time attending conferences to espouse its coolness as these people do? We'd never have gotten the light bulb or the peep show machine. The peep show machine, people? Talk about a fucking tragedy.
And I don't think anyone would accuse blogging of being as important as the telephone. Or the peep show machine, for that matter.
But on the other hand, it seems to me that the Cowgirl's sentiments aren't entirely genuine. It smells like jealousy, and I know the smell, because I reek of it. The first section of her post reads like a resume of Fascinating Blog Firsts. "Did you hear MTV wanted to make my blog a show? It would have been on right after WebRiot and all of MTV's other misguided attempts to rot the youth culture through the internet." No matter how cool your clique, there's always someone cooler, and I think Cowgirl might be a little pissed she didn't get invited to the AOL prom.
And who can blame her? I mean, she's as qualified as anyone, right? I can't argue with the resume.
RCB is right. Blogging isn't a conversation. But it's not a primal scream, either. That's a little too Pump Up The Volume, don't you think? If we're being honest with ourselves, we'd admit that it's nothing more than a pitiful whimper in a colossal cacophony of whines and wheezes.
And the question remains, why do it? Has our upbringing so infatuated us with the idea of being watched and heard that we're willing to resort to this? It's stripping nude and juggling on a street corner in a ghost town.
In fact, that would be better. This is just, this.
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Tuesday, July 08, 2003
I'm not totally sure how I got on the There list, but last week I received an email inviting me to participate in its public Beta test. Well, if there's one thing you can count on me for, it's downloading any unfamiliar software suggested in an email sent by someone I don't know. Especially when I'm at work. So I clicked on the link and, after a short registration followed by a long download and installation, was informed that I was equipped with whatever Boolean operators and javascripts they use to make this fancy internet thing go whiz. Equipped technically, at least. It would take me the weekend to be prepared mentally. And so it was that I finally logged on yesterday.
Let me pause here to say that I think the name There is a fine example of why the internet failed. America and the American economy thrived when upstart companies were named things like American Telephone and Telegraph, Standard Oil, General Electric, National Plunger Corp., Trans-Buffalo Rubber Shoe Supply, and Ohio Valley Rope and Gallows, Limited. You knew exactly what they provided or produced. It was dignified and honorable, and there was no need for snazz, irony, or cool ambiguity. The internet, on the other hand, is filled with company names that provide absolutely no indication of what they purport to do. Want books? Go to Amazon. Auction? EBay. Airline tickets? Priceline. It's no wonder most of them were crushed under the weight of their own advertising budgets -- it required hundreds of millions to convince the public that Monster is where to go to get a job. If those fuckers had some smarts and listened to me, they'd be named Internet General Books and Sundries, Transglobal Online Auctions, Airline Ticket Clearinghouse, and Transnational Employment and Placement.
But no one listens to me, and so There is not called Virtual Mall Corporation of America.
If someone actually read this blog, here's where they'd be saying, "But certainly you've oversimplified the V.M.C.A. or 'There,' for it is an expansive 3D world in which you can communicate with other players, play games, and join clubs in addition to using real money to shop for products and services... it's a Metaverse!" To that, I say, what the fuck is a metaverse?
There's no doubt There is an interesting idea. It combines the familiarity of the tasks in The Sims with the community and economy of Everquest. What you wind up with is a bunch of 3D avatars running around a world that's equal parts Temptation Island, Endor, and Swiss Family Robinson. Except there are billboards everywhere advertising haircuts, sweatshirts, and hoverboards. Walk up to a billboard, read it, try on or try out the advertised item for a minute or so, and, if you so choose, purchase it. You get 10,000 Therebucks (clever) for signing up. Unfortunately, the There economy suffers from gross inflation, and the Therebucks exchange rate is 1,787 to US$1. So in case you didn't feel ass-reamed enough by spending $50 on a sweatshirt at J. Crew in the real world, now you can spend $799 Therebucks on a sweatshirt for your avatar in There.
Despite all this, I'd like to see There do well. I'm especially eager to see the rise of gambling and prostitution in There. I have no doubt both will pop up soon, especially in the absense of anything more compelling to do than Hoverboard races.
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Monday, July 07, 2003
It's not that I'm against it, mind you. We're everywhere else -- why not Africa? I saw "The Air Up There," and I thought it was sweet. And the nice thing about these Liberians is that you can actually pronounce their names. "Charles Taylor." Simple. No pops or clicks. What could be more American than Chuck Taylor?
Still, something lingers in my brain. It's distant. "Education," I think it's called. It's far off and foggy, but Liberia is ringing some long-cracked history class bell. Maybe I'll just look this "Liberia" up. What would it hurt to whip Mr. Wicker's 7th grade history teachings out of the head-case and polish 'em?
Ah ha! So that's why it all sounds so American! Liberia was founded by something called the American Colonization Society. It was an organization that, with the federal goverment's help, shipped freed slaves back to Africa. You know the capital Monrovia? Named after President James Monroe! And here's the real boogie -- most of them were second or third generation Americans. So while they were certainly kind of dusky like the rest of them Africans, Africa was no more a home to them than it is to honkies like you and me. It kind of reminds me of when the Brits tried to give the Zionists Uganda in 1903. (Those wiley Jews held out for Palestine, which, of course, turned out to be much better real estate. Downright explosive real estate.)
I wish someone would ship me out of here and give me my own country. Preferably in South Pacific. I'd become the Ayatollah of my Holy Directorate, and I'd enslave the natives. With love.
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Now choosing the sword when you've got all kinds of your dad's other properly-registered weaponry on you, like rifles, shotguns, handguns, and knives? That's just not thinking.
Kids today.
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Wednesday, July 02, 2003
So I guess we know where Liza and her new hubby are honeymooning! [RIMSHOT!]
But seriously, ladies and gentlemen, let's hope those Chilean scientists figure it out before it gets too Chile! [RIMSHOT!]
But seriously, ladies and gentlemen, the story reminded me of the Exploding Whale Video. It was, I think, the first non-pornographic video I ever downloaded off this crazy thing called the internet. Many followed, but this one holds a special place in my heart.
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Tuesday, July 01, 2003
South of the border, they call me El Machino del Sexo.
From the moment I read about the Cowgirl's experiment in altruism, I had little doubt I'd send her something. I discussed the motivation below -- traffic and traffic alone. The real question was what to send. As I am both lazy and very self-satisfied, my first idea was simply to paste an old post from my other blog into an email and send it. "She'll love it," I thought self-satisfiedly, "and no one will be the wiser, 'cause no one reads any of this anyway." There was no second idea because, I'll reiterate, I'm self-satisfied and lazy. I also never sent the email. I say again, I am lazy.
Instead of actually sending the email, I spilled out my resentment of her readership here. Obviously I was shocked when she contacted me, but more at the how than the why. The why is so obvious, isn't it, World? You republish me because I am brilliant, and no amount of personal attacks could prevent even the least conscienced human from sharing my genius with the masses.
The how, she told me, was through Technorati. I was unaware of this service, and it's amazing to me. If only some engineer could apply this concept to life outside of the internet-hole. Imagine something that told you who was talking about you, when, and what they were saying. I don't think I could ever look away, even if I wound up watching through the words of others my own disappearance from the world of the living. "Whatever happened to him?" "I remember that guy. I don't think anybody's seen him." "I heard he lives in a house with the windows painted black." "That self-satisfied, lazy fucker."
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We learn from the movies, and anyone that's seen any of Morgan Freeman's myriad serial killer films can tell you that the only way to catch a diabolical murder machine such as the one responsible for this catricide is to get in his head. Discover his ritual. Try to understand why he's doing what he's doing. "Get close, but not too close," Morgan might say in his wise, old black guy way. He's saying it even now. In my head.
I'm no Ace Ventura, but allow me to play the part of pussy dick for just a moment. According to the article, some of the cats were mutilated with "surgical precision." Others look as though they were killed by a "wild animal." Conclusion? Some were killed by, like, a dog or car. Others by some damn kids using the drugs.
I find the idea of a serial cat killer uncompelling. Now a cat serial killer... that would be something. Put a bloodhound and Cheech Marin on his tail, and you've got a show.
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