I'm not completely certain, but I think I'm proud that I have friends that have slept with contestants on Survivor. I take that back. I'm completely certain.
The first instance of this degree of reality show sexparation came to my attention a few years ago when a high school friend told me that he'd had sex with Jerri of Survivor: The Amazon and Playboy fame. He was managing a club in LA at the time, and Jerri was one of the bartendrices. The second instance occurred today when a college buddy informed me he slept with Christa, soon to be seen on Survivor: Pearl Islands.
There's no question I'm proud of both boys, and of myself for knowing them. As the years crawl onward, though, and the reality shows pile-up, we'll all get closer to a reality show connection. We'll all be Kevin Bacons in our little way.
That day will be a promise fulfilled. It will be glorious, indeed.
Analogcabin @ 1:21 PM ------------------------- First and foremost, thanks be to Diener for filling in. He wrote with alacrity, as is his way, despite that I only directed five people to his site. Rob's going to be big one day, America. It'll either be for his wit or an Ashley Olsen kidnapping plot that'll wind up with him asleep at the wheel of a Crown Victoria, coasting toward an Ojai ravine with a very dead Mary Kate Olsen in the trunk. I'll say I knew him when. Analogcabin @ 7:26 AM ------------------------- Hi, Rob Diener again, here to tell you I've decided that Billy Crystal is worse than Jerry Lewis, because Billy Crystal has had the benefit of seeing how much of a prick Jerry Lewis is.
Rob @ 11:32 PM ------------------------- Hiya, friends! The much ballyhooed Rob Diener, here. Y'know, after an exhausting five and a half hours laboring in the pizza mines*, there's nothing I find more relaxing than writing a little something for a website that I'm guessing is seen by even fewer people than my own**. But before I got down to it just now, I checked my e-mail, and found one new message, an anonymous one***. The message was short and spicy: "lame punk."
Rob @ 11:12 PM ------------------------- When the phrase "sperm smuggling" is used in reference to something that happens in jail, it's usually safe to assume that it involves a slight, embezzling convict known as "Alice" working on behalf of assault convict Rico's Alabama blacksnake, and the smuggling is only from the shower to Alice's shame-filled cell.
Analogcabin @ 3:01 PM ------------------------- If you're feeling like I was when I woke up this morning, you're terribly concerned that absolutely hilarious acts of racist xenophobia are dead in this country. Here's something to assuage your fears. It's an article about an Egyptian woman who was told, upon complaining to her employer about racist harrassment, that, if she didn't like it, she could "find alternate employment as a suicide bomber for Saddam Hussein." Analogcabin @ 8:01 AM ------------------------- You can always count on CNN.com's adorable "Offbeat News" section to deliver exactly the kind of laughs that make Hump Day just a little bit easier to get over. It's like "Dilbert" for the CBS Sunday Morning crowd. This morning, this Hump Day, is no exception. Lookee here.
Analogcabin @ 7:55 AM ------------------------- There's no question that I'm a huge fan of Funnsylvania. I find its creator and curator Rob Diener to be wildly humorous in a man on the verge of a tragic and sad breakdown kind of way. Nowhere is this more clear than in his fabulous MP3 performances. I imagine, sometimes, that they're recorded as he drives around east Hollywood searching for his next victim. Or as he stares out of the window of a two room apartment he hasn't left in 13 months wearing a Lake Placid Olympics sweatshirt that reeks of hash, sweat, and mildew. It's theater of the mind and, regardless of where you set him, Diener's recordings are exactly the kind of rare genius that would never see the light of day were it not for the utter uselessness of the internet and the collective boredom and low standards of a generation.
Analogcabin @ 8:30 AM ------------------------- As a teeth man, I've never been completely simpatico with those who find Jewel attractive. It'd be worse if she had a gray, dead tooth -- for me, the rickets of the face -- but the dental situation is still pretty bleak. There are those who might say, "But her breasts are so large -- seemingly swollen with erotic potential!" To them, my response is this: if we're to stoop to the bad-teethed big-titted blonde caste, Patricia Arquette is a much more attractive, more pleasantly voluptuous choice.
Analogcabin @ 11:47 AM ------------------------- Breathe out, America. I've returned from Las Vegas, and safely, so look forward to weeks more of my meek bleatings.
Analogcabin @ 7:31 AM ------------------------- May 22, 2003
Jimmy Saffron @ 10:29 PM ------------------------- Writing for a blog is tough, but it's nothing like writing a cover letter.
Jimmy Saffron @ 11:20 PM ------------------------- Okay, so I walk into a business establishment, approach the counter, and say the following:
Jimmy Saffron @ 7:57 PM ------------------------- I'm here for you, readers. Like Elizabeth Giddens to Roger Hodge.
Jimmy Saffron @ 12:55 PM ------------------------- Just in time to respond to the throngs of nubile and horny internet pilgrims directed here by the link Robert Fucking Diener of Funnsylvania recently added to his page (wherein he calls me "bitter," "disinterested," and "charming"... oddly similar to the way in which my lovemaking is usually described,) I've been called away to Las Vegas. Filling my shoes for the week will be Jimmy Saffron -- cohort, friend, and sometime lover from Analogcabin.com.
Analogcabin @ 2:33 PM ------------------------- There's nothing quite like a weekend in Kinderhook, Michigan to change your outlook and make you realize that Iron Maiden's current and best lead singer, Bruce Dickinson, is either a bigger douchebag than previously suspected or the greatest, coolest rock star ever.
Analogcabin @ 7:21 AM ------------------------- I'm hopelessly behind the times, I suppose, and an ill-behaved blogger. Were I more current, I'd be crafting an insightful and hilarious post about Arnold Swartzenegger's entry into the California gubernatorial race. Perhaps something conceptual. Maybe coverage for Twins 2 starring Arnold and Gary Coleman. Something worthy of Mark Russell. Or the Capitol Steps, at least.
Analogcabin @ 3:05 PM ------------------------- Maybe you should consider canceling that eagerly anticipated summertime getaway to Inner Mongolia, World. I know, it's hard to conceive of a summer without packing the fam in the van and hitting the Mongolian road, but the popular vacation spot is currently stricken with The Eighth Plague.
Analogcabin @ 11:15 AM ------------------------- It's amazing to me that anyone cares.
Analogcabin @ 12:43 PM -------------------------
Permalink |
Permalink |
Monday, August 25, 2003
Billy Crystal was 28 when he appeared on "Saturday Night Live with Howard Cosell" and, later, "All in the Family". When he was 29 he was on Saturday Night Live for a single episode in he show's first season. Then he got his big break: a small role in the TV movie, "SST: Death Flight". Billed above him are such notables as Barabara "The Six Million Dollar Man" Anderson, Burt "People Do the Craziest Things" Convy, Peter "Valley of Mystery" Graves, Lorne "Battlestar Galactica" Green, Susan "Children of the Corn V: Fields of Terror" Hubley, Tina "Look What's Happened to Rosemary's Baby" Louise, George "Look What's Happened to Rosemary's Baby" Maharis, Burgess "There Goes the Groom" Meredith, Doug "The Virginian" McClure, Martin "Adam-12" Milner, Brock "the Chief of Detectives in ‘Soylent Green' "Peters, Robert "Dead Gay Dad" Reed, Susan, Cosa Nostra, Arch Enemy of the FBI" Strasberg, and Misty Rowe, the winner of Miss Miniskirt 1971, who later went on to play Fanny in "Meatballs Part II". Then Billy Crystal. (The only real celebrities to follow Billy in the credits is Regis "Intimate Portrait: Kelly Ripa" Philbin, Paul "Saved by the Bell: Hawaiian Style" Napier, Alain "The Danish Connection" Patrick, Richard "The Invisible Avenger" Derr, Ric "The Swinging Cheerleaders" Carrott , Walter "Suicide Battalion" Maslow, and of course Robert Ito, who I'm sure we all remember as Books Monahan on the series "Mom P.I." (if you don't remember the show, let this IMDB testimonial from some Australian guy tell you why you should).
markrbryant
Sydney, Australia
Date: 23 January 2002
Summary: Watch out kids!! It's Mom P.I!!
Who'd have thought that in 1990, a temultuous troublesome year at best, TV could have served up such a wholesome and delicious slice of fun-pie. A portion large enough for the whole family!! (Even Grandma!!) Mom P.I sizzles as the funny, sexy, and altogether edible crime fighting vixen as we discover that sometimes the toughest thing to get to the bottom of is your teenage son's bedroom floor!! But seriously, if the show taught us one thing (and it taught us many) was that Mom's always watching. So before you go taking that extra bed time cookie take a look over your shoulder or you might find yourself in trouble with Mom. Mom P.I.
That's quite a testimonial. Anyway, to end all this, it turns out Billy Crystal used to write for "The Love Boat". That's pretty funny.
All right, that's it for me. Thank you. I hope you've enjoyed this piece of scholarship, and I'll see you in hell.
Permalink |
Sunday, August 24, 2003
Now, for one thing, I may not be the most dexterous person in the world, but, you know, all my limbs work, so I'm definitely not lame. As for being called a punk, well, I'd be lying if I said I don't consider it praise, and I can't deny that I like to think of myself as 100% punk rock in a nebulous kind of way, but let's face it--I'm way too much of a pussy to be considered a punk. And more than that, I'm an upper middle class, private school-educated Jew. I wear khaki pants and Banana Republic polos. Not all the time, but I feel even once is enough to take someone out of the running. I'd say my biggest claim to being PUNK ROCK is that I held my own in the front row of two boisterous Shane MacGowan shows in Washington D.C., a very PUNK ROCK city at that (if you ask the upper middle class private school kids who make up about 90% of the city's white youth population). But this is easily overridden by the fact that I twisted my ankle the only time I ever got on a skateboard. Oh, and that I love Margaret Thatcher with a passion I am not equipped to put into words.
So, anyway, the message. "lame punk". I did a little research, and found that the timing of the message seemed to coincide with someone who'd come to my site via search engine. Further research keyed me in to the search query this asshole had used--Ralphie May.
Ralphie May. Ralphie May. I don't know if any of you watched "Last Comic Standing: The Search for the Funniest Person in America", but it sucked. More to the point, Ralphie May was one of the two finalists. My take was that he was no good, not because he is profoundly obese, but because he is a white Houstonian who basically puts on a black accent and tells racist jokes, mitigated by his poking fun at himself and other fat people. So, all I know**** is, someone searched for this guy*****, found my site at the top of the tenth page of search results, read at least part of the page that contained my review of the final episode of "LCS: TSFTFPIA", and sent me an anonymous e-mail filled with impotent rage. I like to think it was Ralphie himself******. And if you're reading this Ralphie, I'd just like to say that I bear you no ill, that I hope you make a nice life for yourself with your comedy. I was only kidding around, I guess. I mean, sure, I think you suck, but I don't want to see you living on the street or nothing. You feelin' me? We cool.
* - I am a pizza boy. Well, man, really. I'm no boy.
** - Funnsylvania.com, as seen in Money Magazine
*** - The only good thing on my site is a form that lets people send anonymous messages. You'd be amazed by how many cowards there are out there.
**** - Well, I don't really know. Not for sure. But there's a good chance.
***** - I've been getting tons of people finding my site by searching for Ralphie May lately. It saddens me that he could potentially make a lot of money, seeing as there are so many fat white racist kids who speak ebonics out there.
****** A guy can have his dreams, can't he?
Permalink |
Thursday, August 21, 2003
But as is their way, the mafiosos have yet again revolutionized the way we think about crime. This article chronicles one instance of a caper that's been committed in at least five other instances at Allenwood Federal Prison.
It's not a caper about money, vengence, or respect. It's about love.
The jist here is that a crook who wants to be a daddy "uses" something called a cryogenic sperm kit to deliver goods that would normally be impossible to deliver while in prison. At least without the benefit of absolutely exceptional aim. The crookwife then "uses" the cryogenic sperm kit to conceive a little bundle of criminal joy. It's got to be a positively frigid (pun) operation for her, and anyone who's ever placed their tongue on a cold signpost knows what I mean.
I have two favorite moments in the article. The first is a quote from a federal appeals judge that ordered some frozen cum-traband destroyed. He called it "the fruits of [the accused's] criminal activity." My second favorite part is when the accused jizz-smuggler says that the plot was "made out of pure love." I don't think that phrase could be used accurately often, but it works here.
Q: "What's that crusted on your collar?"
A: "Pure love."
Permalink |
Permalink |
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
There's more than the image of a domineering, battle ax of a mother that simply won't let her stupid and maybe a little loose daughter Karah forget how she threw her life away at 18 by letting herself get knocked up by Buck the Knife, a 34-year-old DJ on the local classic rock station, during a Quaalude and Rolling Rock addled encounter in the back of a van during Pearl Jam's second encore, ironically, "Daughter," to make you chuckle. There's also this paragraph:
Inspired by the NBC reality series "Who Wants to Marry my Dad," Wood posted an ad in a local paper and planted a sign on her lawn seeking the perfect gentleman, who should enjoy movies, horse-back riding, long walks and watersports.
I think it's nice that her mom's supports Karah's love for the warm, golden, and asparagussy fuel that fires her erotic engine.
Mom, if you're reading this, you have my permission to put a sign on the lawn that says, "My son needs a woman who loves to read, enjoys the outdoors, and craves thick, red Doberman cock nearly as much as she enjoys squeezing a voluminous and watery doodie into the mouth of her lover. No Jews."
Permalink |
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
I'm such a fan, in fact, that I feel compelled to respond to his post of the 18th which, though officially untitled, I like to call "I'm Boss: Rob Diener's Giant and Fragile Ego Wrestles With Success."
Because, as they say in New York, I know from giant and fragile egos.
Last week I responded to Rob's request for help redesigning his site. I did this because I'm a fan and because it passes time while waiting in the bushes for Erin Gray to walk out of her house alone. Over the course of the email exchange, I asked if he uses blogging software to update his site. Because my own ego is gigantic, I can only assume his tirade on blogs and blogging at least partially stems from that thoughtless misstatement.
I can understand why Rob chafes at his blog being referred to as a blog. The blogging community, or blogosphere as it's called by hard-ons, is only marginally cooler than the Star Trek community. On the downside, it takes itself more seriously. And most blogs are awful. No one wants to hear the moment to moment thoughts of a pimply-faced loser -- that's why they didn't have friends in high school. Being spared seeing the zits is the only improvement over face-to-face that blogs offer.
Blogs are lame. Rob'll get no argument from me there. That's why I'm sorry that he writes one.
The not-so-hilarious Devil's Dictionary 2.0 says that blog means, "to noisily and simultaneously void one’s spleen, stomach, bladder and bowels." Though the attempt at comedy was abortive, I think it's a somewhat accurate working definition. My own loose definition of blog goes something like this: A webpage updated regularly with frequently bad prose by a person or persons that thinly veils megalomania with some amount of concern about or awareness of the world around them.
Ultimately, I think one can determine whether or not one writes a blog by asking oneself two questions. The first is, "Do I regularly update a website with personal writing?" The second is, "Was I or am I still a pimply-faced loser in high school?"
No matter that I'm a monstrously-endowed pheromone-radiating dynamo now, I was that then, and I'm certain that's what makes my blog a blog.
In anticipation of my absence next Monday and Tuesday (sigh, America, sigh,) I also asked Rob if he'd like to fill in for me here. It's a thrill for the kid, I'm sure. He's getting called up to the majors. The show. I think anyone who's seen Bull Durham knows how people can respond to that. There's pressure involved with writing on The Spoonbender. It's not even writing. It's crafting. It's artful word crafting. Perhaps denying the form in which he works is a way to shirk responsibility for entertaining the vast numbers that journey here each day to consume the very best this language, or any language, has to offer.
But who am I to say. Maybe Funnsylvania isn't a blog. But if it's not, it's in the same way that Audis are more than just cars. Rather than making a mountain out of a molehill, Diener should be pleased to write one of the best blogs in the dignified history of blogs. And his incurable impotence doesn't change that.
Permalink |
Monday, August 18, 2003
And that is why, when offered up the womanhoods of Jewel and Patricia Arquette, I choose the latter. Every time.
That's all to say that I'm not a Jewel fan, and I'm not swayed by her breasts. Someone must be, though. There's evidence of it everywhere.
Liz Phair's latest record is disastrous, obviously. It's awful even when considered within the context of her oeuvre -- notable for the rapid increase in awfulness with each release following Exile in Guyville. The new record has got to be one of the most overtly pandering shots at commercial success ever attempted by a musician with some modicum of "indie cred," and I haven't even heard it. I don't care, of course, because, as I've already mentioned, I disliked everything she did following Exile. In retrospect, I probably only liked that record because she's hot, naked in the liner notes, and talks about blowjobs in more than one song.
But I can forgive Liz Phair, and I'm sure she's relieved to hear it. Living on the periphery of real fuck off rock star wealth must take its toll, especially when Michelle Branch and Avril Lavigne are amassing ungodly fortunes for feats seemingly so well-within Liz's repertoire. She isn't as young as she used to be, and if she's going to pose nude and sell, she'd better get it done. It won't be long before they can't airbrush her back to 15 anymore.
It's more difficult to forgive Jewel's latest foray, and not only because she's not as attractive as Liz Phair. The problem is that Jewel kicked her career off saccharine, trite, and amazingly successful. Still an adolescent girl at the time, she was no doubt deeply dismorphic and in need of validation. Eight million records later, she believed herself to be intelligent, insightful, or talented. Tragic, really. Self-esteem is great, but so is realism. Regardless, her initial impact and subsequent self-importance was great enough to generate backlash, thank Jesus. Tastes changed between Pieces of You and whatever her next record was. No doubt crippled by the rejection, the already wealthy and quickly aging songstress transformed herself into whatever it is she is now. For her, it's not about the money, and that's why it's more difficult to forgive. Why sell-out if not for the money?
But none of this keeps me up at night. What does are the flea bites I received all over my feet while staying at Las Vegas shithole Texas Station Hotel and Casino. The real inspiration for this whole rant was the name of Jewel's movie production company -- Gravitas Entertainment. It's absurd beyond the point of being a punchline. I doubt there's anyone working in entertainment today that's more widely mocked for taking herself so seriously and thinking herself so talented than Jewel. Naming her company Gravitas is evidence that either she's completely unaware of the joke that she has fantastic sense of humor.
In the 15 or 20 seconds I spent considering the topic before I started writing, I was reminded of what's probably the best review of anything I've ever read:
the SF Weekly review of Jewel's book of poetry by Kevin McAlester. I love it because it's funny, he focuses on her breasts, and it ultimately becomes an indictment of poetry as a form.
Permalink |
Saturday, August 16, 2003
I'd like to extend my thanks to the very talented and lovely Jimmy Saffron for filling in for me. He's born to blog, and that's a gift like ventriloquism. I see a day not far from now when he'll curate a blog of his own, but until that great day, read him at Analogcabin.
Permalink |
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Michael LePlae
Human Resources
Stehman\Diddle\McMickey
7436 Tacoma Dr.
Santa Barbara, CA 92323
Dear Michael:
I am writing in response to your listing on monster.com for an account services assistant.
As you can see from my resume, I have no prior experience in advertising. Regrettable, I know, but my schedule over the past two decades-- I have written, produced and directed several feature films-- left little time for me to explore other avenues. However, filmmaking is an organic process. You're constantly picking things up along the way. I think I have picked up several things which I think could make excellent antecedents to a career in advertising.
For instance, I once took a typing class, as preparation for my role in "The Player." I played a stenographer in the scene where Tim Robbins takes his pants off for Peter Gallagher (totally improvised, by the way). In case you're wondering, the scene was eventually cut from the film. Not because my typing was unconvincing, you understand. I simply had second thoughts about appearing in the picture. We went a little "cameo crazy" on that one, as I'm sure you remember. Maybe I felt left out. I don't know.
Incidentally, it was my cinematographer Tak Fujimoto who recommended me to Stehman\Diddle\McMickey. I understand he shot several Nissan spots for you last August. While working on my last film, "Gosford Park," he couldn't stop talking about what a great experience he'd had working in commercials. He suggested I contact you about entry-level opportunities. At first I played like I wasn't interested. Why I can't say. Maybe to save face? I may have made some comment about maintaining artistic integrity, to which Tak just smiled. Then, two takes later, he turned and said, "Hey, Altman. Head down to the corner store. See if your glowing Pauline Kael reviews can buy us a good cup of coffee." That Tak-- he has such a brilliant, pointed sense of humor. You wouldn't know from looking at him. So versatile, too, as a DP. A real collaborator. Anyway, point was taken.
You'll have to excuse me. I have never been good at writing cover letters. My agent (Lou Ackerman? At CAA? He claims you've met) is constantly hounding me about this. "Too colloquial" is what it usual comes down to. One time I showed him a cover letter I sent to a temp agency in Richmond, VA, and he tore it up, called it "horsesh*t." "This will never sell anybody," he screamed. "Where is your contact information? How can they give you a job if they can't f**king find you, you vagabond hippy sh*tbag. And what's with all these contractions! I've told you a million times, no f**king contractions in a cover letter!" I hadn't seen him that mad since I gave Paramount that 4 hour cut of "The Gingerbread Man."
S\D\M seems to me to be a great opportunity, a chance to be a part of something big, fun and different, and I know I have a lot to offer as a candidate. I thought if I gave you a quick summary of my skills and job history, you could offer some advice on where I could or should start within the agency. I realize that directing a feature film does not necessarily qualify me to work in advertising. I hope you can ignore the commercial failure of many of my projects, and instead accept my interest in the job as a genuine desire to learn and grow.
Thanks for your consideration. Let me say again, I think I would make an excellent assistant. Should you need to contact me, please call Janee, my assistant, at 818-555-7856.
Sincerely,
Robert Altman
Enclosure (1)
Permalink |
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
I approach writing cover letters with a level of enthusiasm usually reserved for root canals. Or prison yard rape. To me, they're awful. Draining. Rife with humiliation. Still, I was forced to write a lot of them over the past year. Sometimes, to liven things up, I would write "high-concept" (read "ridiculous") cover letters and contemplate sending them, with the hopes that the recipient would appreciate my creativity and thus catapault me up the ladder because I "think outside the box" or some shit.
One of them I wrote as Scott Howard, the character played by Michael J. Fox in "Teen Wolf." In the letter, I adknowledged being a werewolf, and explained how my experience as a lupus made me the ideal candidate for the job. Something about tenacity and "going for the jugular." In the final paragraph, I suggested that any other candidates for the job be given my photograph and general description, so as to avoid me come the next full moon. I warned that in my werewolf state, I could not be reasoned with, and would kill them on sight. I think I even went so far as to create a resume for that one.
What follows is one of said cover letters. If I read it tomorrow and still thinks it's funny, I'll publish some more, sans introduction. Maybe, if you're lucky, I'll post the one where I pretend to be Robert Altman.
October 24, 2002
TFC Direct
Marketing Department
Attn: Rodney Kohlmeyer
3423 Canoga Avenue
Woodland Hills, CA 91367
Dear Mr. Kohlmeyer:
You are in grave danger.
Now whatever you do, Rodney, do not panic. You must keep reading, because they’re watching you. Right now, at this very moment, hidden surveillance cameras are recording your every move. You must appear as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Just keep reading. Look bored. Pretend this is your usual, run-of-the-mill cover letter. Good. Very good. You may survive this yet.
Now, on your desk there is a pen. Pick it up. Use it to copy this letter word by word as you read. That way, you can concentrate on its contents, while giving off the appearance of normal work habits. Continue in this manner, and I will outline my plan to get you out of this thing.
My guess is you are hungry for information at the moment. Our first objective should be to establish a close, regular proximity, a place where we can meet on a daily basis, without drawing attention to ourselves.
My plan is this: I will apply for a job at the company where you work. From a recent scan of the job listings, I have discovered your organization is looking for a new marketing assistant. The timing could not be better.
With my background in the mortgage industry, I will appear perfectly qualified. Hiring me makes perfect sense, and no one will be the wiser. If, for whatever reason, someone does ask for a justification, tell them the following:
[Here, I would list my actual qualifications for the job]
All of the above is fact, and supported by record. These qualifications (as outlined in the enclosed "resume"), partnered with a glowing recommendation from you, should be enough to secure me the job.
Then, once I am set up as your co-worker, over what will be without a doubt a long and fruitful tenure, I can disclose to you in detail the remainder of my plan. With our combined skills and resolve, plus faith and a little luck, we'll get through this thing, goddamnit. Just know you're not alone anymore, Rodney. You've got a partner in this thing. That partner is me.
When you have successfully convinced your superiors that I am the ideal candidate for the marketing assistant job , call this telephone number: 310.403.4383. Ask for "Jimmy." I will respond with: "This is him." We will arrange for the initial "interview." If the voice on the line does not answer using this exact phrasing, then it is too late-- I am already dead. Drop the phone, and run for your life.
That is all, Rodney. I'll wait to hear from you. Good luck, and Gods speed.
Sincerely,
Jimmy Saffron
Enclosure
Permalink |
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
"I'd like a 4x4 flying dutchman, animal style."
Where am I?
I know, I know. My first guess was a male whorehouse in Amsterdam, too.
It was a day for lingual revelations. Turns out the Incas may have had a written language after all. Who knew? The question on everyone's mind, I'm sure, is can we translate it? And if so, how soon can we see that khipu novelization of "Bad Boys II?"
Whoa. This post is starting out like a bad Conan O'Brien monologue.
Speaking of, here's a collection of jokes from the late-night talk shows having to do with the 2004 election. You'll notice they all have to do with the Democratic nominees, yet not one of them is directed at Howard Dean. Can we take that as a good sign? Maybe. Am I desperate for good signs vis a vis the Democrats? Absolutely.
Am I sold on Dean? I think I am. I know he's pro-death penalty, somewhat pro-guns, fiscally conservative. But those are minor concessions to someone like me, in exchange for a candidate who's willing to go the mattresses with Shrub.
And holy shit, look at this. Maureen's talking about blogs!
Maureen. So fizzy. So frank. Be mine.
Permalink |
Is Harper's Weekly the preminent blog? Is it all we can aspire to be? Mad happenings and lunatic juxtapositions, all (supposedly) attributable to fact?
Permalink |
Monday, August 11, 2003
Have no doubt I'll try and try and try again to share some genius from the desert, nor should you have doubt that I won't succeed.
In my absence, know that I love you. And know that I've left you in capable, albeit partially Jewish, hands.
Permalink |
Without a doubt, the dichotomy begins with the Maiden itself -- perhaps the coolest, most asinine band ever to rock crowds worldwide, but mostly in Japan and Northern Europe. It's difficult to express how hard they rock, but believe you me, they do. The syncopated bass lines driving into bold choruses, punctuated by guitars screeching in harmony and Dickinson's operatic tenor. That dramatic and unrelenting rocking is the only thing that salvages lyrics like, "Without a stillsuit you would fry / On the sands so hot and dry / In a world called Arrakis." But rather than arguing the point to the uninitiated, I'll simply direct you to "Powerslave." Revel in the duality of it all.
Then there's his fencing. I can't verify it now, but I've heard that he was a professional at some point, or was nearly on Britain's Olympic team. Whatever the facts, fencing is one of those sports -- it's cool in a way, especially when done by a mostly nude Soviet spy lady. But when it's done by a guy whose lyrics already betray a penchant for sci fi, it's a lot less cool. Almost uncool on Society for Creative Anachronism levels.
Tae Kwon Do's the same way -- rad when it's a mostly nude Chinese spy lady rather than a sweaty, heavily-acned Dungeonmaster.
And now there's this. I'd like to believe that Bruce has a job because he's both humble and has a genuine love for flying. Or perhaps he's got a tremendous work ethic and feels as though a job keeps him grounded ("grounded," as it were, wakka wakka.) If that were the case, well, how cool. I mean, really. That's cool.
But somehow I doubt it. And if the behavior is as inexplicable and dorky as it seems, well, there's not much to say beyond, what a fucking dork.
Permalink |
Thursday, August 07, 2003
Instead, I'm thinking about this. Truthfully, I didn't even read the whole article, and the commercialization of a terrorism futures market seems no less or more tasteful than a death pool. What's been bugging me is the unanimity with which America has dismissed the idea.
Any idiot should be able to understand that The Pentagon was on the verge of accomplishing something it rarely does -- achieving goals in a simple and inexpensive way. Futures markets are used because they instantaneously reflect trends in thinking across a large group of people -- in this case, terrorism experts. They're also used because of the low barrier of entry for participants. Weak spots could be identified quickly. Changes to security policy and shifts in focus would result in changes in the market, pushing up futures in areas that need additional attention. It's a quick way to have countless eyes on a set of problems. No one opinion can drown out another. It's a good fucking idea.
But we're too sensitive, as though not talking about pox patient zero chilling out at Cinnabon in O'Hare will prevent it from happening.
Permalink |
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
And in a naive effort to stave off Numero Echo, those Mongoloids have inadvertently plunged themselves into the Ninth Plague, as well. Talk about hilarious irony.
Permalink |
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
I suppose it's not really that the mystery of who's so vain has been burning the brains of Americans since 1972. I suppose it's because it's cute that she decided to auction the information off, along with a private performance of the song and a PB and J sandwich. It's for charity, after all, and for that, we'll excuse pretty much any amount of self-importance. But the image of Dick Ebersol signing the $50,000 check and grinning at Carly while Ted Danson, Mike Nichols, and Diane Sawyer chuckle and coo just doesn't sit well with me.
I'm sure that Martha's Vineyard Community Services does important work. I'm sure they'll put the fifty grand to good use, providing child care and rehab for the indigent children of one of America's most infamously impoverished regions. A mere 21% higher than the national average per capita income doesn't go so far as it once did. And what does Carly have to give beyond this precious morsel of information, her time, and a peanut butter sandwich?
If my reckoning is correct, I have given $135 to charity in my life, and have volunteered only once -- for the Michael Dukakis presidential campaign.
Permalink |
