It's been quite a little while, but I remember some things about being 15.
I was a sophomore in high school and got my first real job working at this roast beef place called Anderson's. A guy named Dave Casterline and I would go into the cooler and do nitrous hits out of the whipped cream canisters. And I listened to Ozzy back then. No Rest for the Wicked had just come out. I can't remember any of the songs off that record now, except a little bit of "Breaking All the Rules" -- the part where he goes, "a come on, a come on" during the fade-out.
What I remember best about being 15 is the horniness. I was horny all the time. It was absolutely relentless. Horny in the morning, horny in homeroom. Horny periods one through eight (until my school went to a different system, at which point I was horny periods one through twelve.) Horny after school. Horny for Elaine when I watched those first episodes of Seinfeld. Horny when I fell asleep and horny when I woke up in the morning. I was condemned to a Groundhog's Day of crushing horniness. There was no release in sight, until I met Stacy Duschnik.
At 15, I was ready to burst. I was a ticking timebomb of lust.
It's because I remember that feeling so well that I know that there's no bigger proponent of the sanctity of Gypsy cultural tradition than this guy is right now.
Analogcabin @ 8:59 AM ------------------------- Ah, Italians. They're a passionate, fiery people that answer to the logic of amore, and amore alone. They're a race of lovers. Their olive skin is often thickly-haired and usually glistens with the sweetest of sweet sweat -- that which is born of loving. They take their sustenance from not only delicious pastas and all manner of tomato-based saucy delights but also from the sweet, metaphoric nectar of the heart. Not blood, amigo. Love.
Analogcabin @ 12:45 PM ------------------------- I thought a fitting memorial to the late Robert Palmer would be to perform a Google image search on his name, primarily because that's the only memorial that fit so well into my Friday afternoon plans. Those of course being to surf the internet absolutely without aim in hopes of speeding the crawling minutes until finally I'd be released from the torture chamber that is my place of work. "TGIF," as they say with the wit of a week-old corpse, and to they I say, "And how."
Analogcabin @ 2:05 PM ------------------------- It's confirmed. The world is, in fact, falling apart.
Analogcabin @ 11:34 AM ------------------------- At those prices, it's no wonder SMU considered the situation unsafe. Even the black man's price, $.25, is an outrage for a single cookie, let alone the $1 for a white man.
Analogcabin @ 2:11 PM ------------------------- If this guy is wrong, I don't want to be right.
Analogcabin @ 10:25 AM ------------------------- Here's a particularly rich article in which 10-year-olds are asked to responded in image to their Radiohead listening experience.
Analogcabin @ 2:28 PM ------------------------- I liked Underworld far, far more than is warranted. That's not to say that I liked it particularly, but that it deserved to be mocked openly, set aflame, then pissed upon until extinguished and I failed to do any of those three things.
Analogcabin @ 12:33 PM ------------------------- While clicking my way through CNN.com today, I happened upon the following headline: "Schools Tackle PDA Problem". I immediately clicked on it, of course, as the prospect of a story chronicling teachers' ages-old battle against public displays of affection is, in a word, hot. I mean, even the most clammy prose describing hormonally overloaded nymphets putting their newly acquired "skillz" through the proverbial paces in public is more than enough to grab the attention of a devout lecher such as myself. So imagine my chagrin, then, when I discovered the PDA in question is not a public display of affection at all, but something known as a "personal digital assistant."
Analogcabin @ 1:56 PM ------------------------- Perhaps it's because I'm mercurial in all things but my love for using words the definitions of which I don't fully grasp like "mercurial," but I think I've decided that Las Vegas has supplanted Los Angeles as the place on Earth I hate most other than Morocco.
Analogcabin @ 1:50 PM ------------------------- I'm back and in the process of mentally preparing to assault four of your senses with a post so acrid and unflappable it'll leave you quivering in a mess of your own making, but I wanted to take some time out to thank J.D. for filling in. Now that you have been introduced, I don't have to tell you that he's simply the funniest man to ever wield ninja stars.
Analogcabin @ 10:07 AM ------------------------- Our friends next door are going to Washington DC this weekend for a wedding. After we had talked over all the dog and plant and mail details, a question came up. If you came across GW Bush in Washington, say, some rainy early morning with noone around but the Secret Service agents, what would you do?
J.D. @ 8:50 PM ------------------------- Anybody who loves a devoted, tortured soul of the Red-Sox-fan variety has likely heard of the "Curse of the Bambino." Superstition holds that the BoSox have suffered their near-century of misery because, in 1920, their owner sold up-and-coming Babe Ruth to the Yankees for a huge amount of cash. (Which he supposedly used to finance a stage musical, thus solidifying high-school jocks' hatred of "theater fags" to this day. Thanks.)
J.D. @ 6:36 PM ------------------------- There's a mild disappointment in the air in southern California today. The recall looks to be off, for now. That means everybody's going to stop looking this way.
J.D. @ 1:07 PM ------------------------- Hello. Hi. Can you put the gamepad down for a second? Great. Thanks.
J.D. @ 11:10 AM ------------------------- Normally upon announcing a short absence from The Spoonbender I'd encourage you, the filthy and nameless masses of internet, to be strong. I'd demand that you weather the storm with what little will and preserve you were given. I'd promise that, in turn for simply holding on, I'd return with more of the heart-wrenching artistry you've come to expect from this, the greatest and most unique website ever.
Analogcabin @ 3:03 PM ------------------------- In certain embarrassing circles, it's popular to be a fan of Apple Computer. They're the underdog in the computer world these days, and underdogs tend to appeal to Americans. But they were perceived to be the underdog even when they weren't really the underdog, and I suspect that's ultimately rooted in Ridley Scott's famous 1984 commercial. In terms of defining the brand's identity, I think that commercial did more for positioning Apple as the benevolent David fighting the corporate Goliaths than the company's actual behavior ever has or will.
Analogcabin @ 11:37 AM ------------------------- Like any man with a heart containing infinite feeling and love, the passing of Nazi propagandist Leni Riefenstahl has thrown me into fits of despair.
Analogcabin @ 2:08 PM ------------------------- I personally find it very difficult to take seriously the political opinions of the people that visited my college campus selling uncombed wool rollnecks and Guats, so I'll admit that the prospect of those people being launched off of Lake Shore Drive into Lake Michigan courtesy of a Chicago Police Department firehose during their pre-war protest march was amusing to me. On the down side, it would have been a strike against freedom of speech. On the up side, it would have been a grand slam for sanitation of the ne'er-be-washed.
Analogcabin @ 1:25 PM ------------------------- I hope they sound better than they look. Analogcabin @ 3:21 PM ------------------------- I'm not feeling particularly spiteful or insightful today, so instead of my standard self-aggrandizing tripe, I'll offer, at my usual rock bottom prices, three news stories that are completely unrelated. I'll then, in a display of minimal imagination, connect them. Fasten your seatbelts.
Analogcabin @ 2:38 PM ------------------------- The legions of you who are dedicated readers and rabid fans know that there are certain things I just don't cotton. Racism is one. Sexism is another. Nuclear arms proliferation, hunger, and disease are some more. A sixth biggie for me, a behavior I find particularly reprehensible, is the sexual harassment of personal assistants. Call me old-fashioned, but some relationships are sacred. I believe that of cloistered, infantile celebrity and shallow, parasitic assistant is one of those sacred bonds.
Analogcabin @ 1:56 PM ------------------------- There's some kind of Latino TV sponsored debate between the Democratic presidential candidates on PBS right now, and something Howard Dean just said struck me as patently hilarious.
Analogcabin @ 12:39 PM ------------------------- I'm not certain that enjoying DirecTV's "70s" Music Choice station as much as I do is a sign that I'm old, but I suspect it. Analogcabin @ 3:07 PM ------------------------- Sometimes it's wonderful when life imitates art. For example, when a college co-ed, nubile and glistening with dew, reenacts Emanuelle during her year abroad. Other times, it's terrible. Like today, when Disneyland's runaway train thrill ride Big Thunder Railroad became a runaway runaway train kill ride.
Analogcabin @ 2:52 PM ------------------------- These are times of tumult, America. It's easy to become caught up and to focus only on the problems of today -- the wars in Iraq and other brown countries, that I can't afford TiVO as easily as I once did, that it's more difficult than ever to find Guinness at reasonable prices, that roofies are on the radar of once unsuspecting college co-eds. But by focusing only on today, we may be forsaking tomorrow and tomorrow's tomorrow and the tomorrow after that. In a word, the future.
Analogcabin @ 2:21 PM ------------------------- Everyday it becomes a little clearer to me: Mom's just aren't what they used to be. If they're not drowning you, they're stripping for you.
Analogcabin @ 11:33 AM ------------------------- In what can only be described as the most diabolical twist on the 30 minutes or less promise yet conceived, a pizza man was turned to pepperoni Thursday when a bomb attached to his neck by a maniacal mastermind living in the hills outside Erie, Pennsylvania detonated. The latest reports suggest that the pizza man was somehow kidnapped en route to a delivery, affixed with the bomb, and instructed to rob a bank. The bomb's timer was set, and the pizza man was sent off to make what would be his final run.
Analogcabin @ 9:44 AM -------------------------
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Monday, September 29, 2003
Was Casanova not Italian? He was. And Romeo? He was, as well. Mark Anthony? Both the historical figure that was ensnared by that deceitful brown seductress, Cleopatra, and the bug-eyed pop sensation best known for his ode to forced anal sex, "Dimelo?" Si, si, and si.
So why did CNN.com deem this article newsworthy enough to list as a Top Story?
No amount of technology will change what history and Hollywood has taught us. The streets of Rome are crowded with men screaming "Itsa nota what it looka like!" while being chased by womwieldinging frying pans. They always have been and they always will be.
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Friday, September 26, 2003
So littered among the webcam images of the various computer science teachers named Robert Palmer, the webcam images of the various geology doctoral students named Robert Palmer, and webcam images of the various NWS meteorologists named Robert Palmer were a few photos related to the Robert Palmer that concerned me -- the simply irresistible singer Robert Palmer.
He was wearing a suit in most of these images, as was his way, and more than a few of them also featured leggy brunettes clad in variations on his own outfit. The most interesting image I found, however, was the cover to his 1976 album Pressure Drop.
You see, I'm interested in this image not only because it prominently features a woman's naked behind, though that does interest me at least passingly. What interests me most is the scenario or emotion they're attempting to portray. "They" of course meaning whomever is responsible for the cover -- the record company, the photographer, or old deady, RP himself.
What struck me first about the image is the way the woman appears to be hugging herself and staring blankly through the sliding glass door. She seems sad -- disinterested in her nudity, rather than perversely flaunting it for the world outside. I briefly considered scenarios of prostitution and rape. Somehow, though, those theories weren't working for me. Next, I thought that the image might be a suggestion of Palmer's homosexuality. Maybe the Pressue Drop referred to in the title is the drop in personal and emotional pressure a coming-out might afford him. He's clearly disinterested in the nude woman behind him, and the way that she's clutching herself suggests shame -- perhaps she feels badly about getting to brink of sex with a man who ultimately rejected her in favor of, say, a young Thai boy. But what is that device in his hand? A corded remote control?
No.
The answer to this riddle, ladies and gentlemen, is impotence. This is a touching portrayal of a man ashamed by his inability to get or sustain an erection. He stares down at his "white corded device," resigned to its flaccidity. The woman, of course, feels badly for both him and for herself. Perhaps on some level she feels as though it's her own fault -- that she's not attractive enough to arouse a man like Palmer. But at the same time she stares out the door, yearning for satisfaction, and advertising for something longer, harder, and better.
Well I say to you, Robert Palmer, rest in peace. Where you're going, you'll always have an erection.
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Somewhere, the seven remaining Power Station fans weep. Somewhere else, two geeks are seriously inconvenienced. And in Chicago, Ira Glass has broken his monotone.
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Thursday, September 25, 2003
The article says that the SMU Young Conservatives sold 3 cookies and made $1.50. Considering the price list, the real mystery is how that $1.50 broke down. Was it one to a white guy and two to blacks? Three to Hispanics? One to a white woman, one to a Hispanic and one to a black? Was it some other unholy comingling of the races I've yet to imagine? Perhaps I'll never know.
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Wednesday, September 24, 2003
It's not that I don't realize that surreptitiously snipping the PJ's off of sleeping coeds is against the law or that it's somehow "wrong." I recognize that his intentions were prurient and probably downright perverse. But you have to admit his crime was unique. And maybe a little hilarious. It's like a lost scene from Porky's or Revenge of the Nerds in which the sisters of Eta Pi wake up, stand up, and watch their silkies fall to the floor just before the Tri Lamb flashbulbs go off.
We live in an age of hackneyed crime. Murderers use guns rather than elaborate, Goldbergian devices involving tripwires, hammers, and kiddy pools filled with lye. Burglars break windows instead of scaling walls with the aid of suction cup shoes. They take TV's rather than pets or panties. In a word, they're lazy. It's all about avoiding capture, not enjoying the crime.
In these days, when our enemies are so damn serious and, like, ideological or something, I think this Jeff Gelinas, the so-called "Serial Snipper," is exactly what we all need. We can't understand why someone might run into a coffee shop in a C4 vest and pull the ripcord, but figuring out the motive behind a little covert pajama snipping is easier. Sure, we're all against him, but we have to admit that he's a bit of a genius -- faulty and lame, but a mastermind of his own little criminal niche, nonetheless.
Perhaps there's a new day dawning -- a kind of criminal artistic renaissance heralded by the Serial Snipper and the still at-large Erie Pizza Bomb Bank Plot architect. Maybe the coming age is one in which we'll thrill at the bizarre criminal antics of a wacky cast of nutballs that are easily dismissed as loons rather than shuddering in our shelters for fear of the next wave of brown raiders piloting plague-laden planes into our Best Buys.
If the dawning of that new age means a few coeds get creeped-out, I'm OK with it.
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Tuesday, September 23, 2003
Via Fractionals.
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The main reason I liked it is Kate Beckinsale playing a vampire in a rubber suit and corset, of course. I'd like to drive a stake into her something, and I'm not talking about her heart or an actual wooden stake, but my penis, if you know what I mean.
Secondarily, there's that I'm a complete fucking loser, and I still carry the scars of Dungeons and Dragons on my aesthetic sensibility. Vampires running around in leather fighting werewolves with fully automatic machine pistols and throwing stars is, frankly, awesome. If you don't think so, you obviously had a date to the prom and are, therefore, not worth my time.
My desire to enjoy the movie was so strong, in fact, that I was able to partially overlook the utterly laughable acting that made the two hour running length feel like a vampire's eternal undeath. Shane Brolly, playing the predictably named Kraven, was particularly bad. Hard to imagine, what with softcore auteur Zalman "Red Shoes" King's smash Chromiumblue.com under his belt.
But looking back on the experience now, I feel like I've been had. They took advantage of me, and I resent it. At least I'm not alone -- Underworld made more than $20 million last weekend. That means there'll be a sequel, and of course, I'll see it. But I won't like it, except that I will.
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Monday, September 22, 2003
Actually, now that I read "personal digital assistant," I realize it does sound kind of hot. Like the pink latex tube you may or may not have seen advertised in the back pages of Playboy and may or may not be able to find stashed in my pantry within a box of Post Grape Nuts cereal.
But let me set my immaturity aside. The PDAs referred to in this article are apparently small personal computers fancied by the youth of today. Though I find it difficult to believe, they are not only capable of holding class notes, schedules, and addresses, but of playing games and sending short missives to other students equipped with their own PDAs. The use of these PDAs -- along with that of cell phones, laptops, and graphing calculators -- has some teachers and administrators in a tizzy fo' shizzy, as the kids have a tendency to use the gadgetry as a distraction.
It reminds me of my days in high school. Seldom was there an American History lecture that we didn't stealthily gab our way through, thanks to the CB Radios we all tucked into our backpacks. "Breaker one nine... we've got a serious set of cans on Missy, easily visible through her new Zenyatta Mondatta shirt. I'd like to pull down her Jams and give her some Outlandos d'Amour, over."
In my day, that's what PDA was all about. What I'm trying to say is that kids today are pussies, and if they want to fight, they should bring it the fuck on. I'm right here.
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Friday, September 19, 2003
Like Rosie O'Donnell, Morocco is in a league of its own. The terribleness of that country is so thorough and unadulterated it was shocking even to me -- a person with unfathomably low expectations of African countries. Worse than the child labor exhibited proudly for tourists was the food. Worse than the food was the complete lack of attractive women. Worse than the lack of attractive women was the utter unavailability of beer. And if you can imagine something more nightmarish than a beerless nation, that's how Morocco smelled.
It's not as easy to articulate why I hate LA and Vegas nearly as much as Morocco. Certain things, the easy targets, come to mind. Both cities are cursed with the architecture of desperation -- strip malls relentlessly spreading over hundreds of square miles of terraformed hellhole like a beige stucco cancer. Both cities are strewn haphazardly across what was once probably beautiful landscape, but is now little more than a knot of inescapable traffic. Both cities are dominated by industries that purport to provide entertainment and employ legions of alternately self-important, vacuous, and self-importantly vacuous people.
But more than any of that stuff, both cities leave me feeling betrayed. Betrayed in the same way I feel betrayed by a pill that promises a thicker, longer penis in thirty days but delivers only an uncomfortable burning sensation and numbness in my left leg.
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That's right. He carries ninja stars. Of love.
Visit his site immediately, lest you become a victim of your own laughable hubris.
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Thursday, September 18, 2003
Others imagined asking him probing questions, ridiculing him, even throwing a balloon of bodily fluid at him. But I knew instantly what I'd want to do: boo.
I love booing. A good, strong, solo boo is just about the funniest form of expression. It's the "Defender" smart bomb of disapproval. Any other insults of mere words can be turned around with the right choice of other words. You can't twist boo. You can't debate boo. It supersedes all rational argument. Boo wins.
On the other hand, Albert Brooks has a great routine about how radio deejays have an ear defect that hears everything as a compliment.
Concertgoer: "Boooo!"
Deejay: "Thank you."
CG: "I said, 'Boo!'"
DJ: "I said, 'thank you.'"
I have a feeling Bush could do that.
I think I hear Daddy Spoonbender's car in the drive. It's been fun hanging out here. Ixnay any alktay about the eersbay, okayay?
You ever want to hang out, come on by fiveoclockrock.blogspot.com anytime.
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Wednesday, September 17, 2003
Through 1918, Boston won five of baseball's first 15 World Series. New York, none.
Since 1920: Yankees 26, Red Sox 0.
Recent pursuit of the boo-hoo hoodoo has led divers to plumb the depths of a Sudbury, Mass. pond for a piano Ruth allegedly pushed into it while on vacation. Logic being, spend $200,000 finding and restoring a piano he apparently hated, Bambino Lifto De Curso.
On to Japan. This year, Osaka baseball fans are pumped about their Hanshin Tigers, verging on their first pennant in almost 20 years of being similarly dominated by the Tokyo big-money Yomiuri Giants. All that time, the Tigers have sucked (Osaka thinks) because, amid the celebrations of their 1985 championship, drunk fans hurled a Colonel Sanders mannequin into the river. They think a pissed-off Colonel Sanders cursed their team. Among other appeasement, river divers attempted their own KFSea Hunt for the statue.
So which roly-poly fuck did the US job market piss off?
And where do I go with all this snorkel gear?
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Tuesday, September 16, 2003
There's a not-so-secret theory I share that Californians -- Angelenos in particular -- are jealous of the attention paid to NY and DC over the past two years. There was (it's disturbing to say) a disappointment and even offense taken at the lack of considering LA a worthy target.
It was akin to intercepting a note in school listing the "Top Ten Homeroom Hotties." Flipping the loose-leaf sheet over and over in vain, LA didn't see its name.
Well, certainly it's coming, they said. By God, right after the Pentagon, they're going to try disrupting "Judge Judy" at the Tribune lot! Within hours of the 2001 attacks, studios implemented Fort Knox security with "F Troop" efficiency. Many a rent-a-cop hitched up his Sansabelt khakis and vowed, "Not gonna happen..."
When people here talk about where they where when the attacks happen, they express the biggest sense of disbelief and shock they ever felt while in front of the television and on the phone... until that unbelievable night with Clay and Ruben.
New York kept getting the attention. Every few months, something happened to show how much New York had soul, had suffered, had cared. Storms. The Mets. Blackouts.
California's reaction to the blackout 2000 miles away: we're okay! A witness to a distant crash, faking a slight limp, and saying to anyone within earshot, "I'm fine! I'm good! Ow... Check on them. I'm... ow. I'll be fine."
Finally, the California recall broke through all the "New York bands together" noise. Hey, we got our own crisis right here! Look! It's crazy! Who knows what'll happen! Are you watching?
California's best hope for attention was the threat posed by its own citizens' love for a diastematic Teuton enigmacrat. And now it must wait again.
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I'm going to be looking after you for a few days, while Daddy Spoonbender is busy with some other things. He seems to think I'll do alright, even though I don't have any blogs of my own. At least -- ha ha -- none I know about. Ha ha. Ahem.
We should have a pretty good time. I'm not going to be a Barney, or a Betty, or whatever the kids call losers these days. Just a few rules, and we'll be more than jake. [That's a band, right? Oh. Well, we're going to be more than Jake.]
Watch whatever. If Daddy Spoonbender didn't pony up for a V-chip
or learn the DVD "Lock" feature, he'll get the offspring he deserves.
[Speaking of, do you suppose any hilarity ensued when documentarian Ric Burns' World Trade Center elegy Center of the World aired on PBS at the same time that Wayne Wang's lolly-where-the-sun-don't-shine DV pant-a-thon Center of the World is in rotation on HBO? Like overtired teachers not reading the listings closely enough, setting their VCRs to tape, and playing the tape in class, to the shrieks and delight of...
No, I guess I didn't really think so, either.]
Sleep whenever. For gods' sakes, you down enough
Red Bull to put sleep out of business.
If my cell phone rings while I'm in the bathroom, and
the Caller ID says "Equifax," don't touch it.
That should do it. Back to whatever you were doing or slaying or skating. I'm going to go upstairs and check out these VHS tapes with no labels I found on that high shelf over there. If you need anything, just stomp loudly on your way up the steps.
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Monday, September 15, 2003
This time, though, I see no need for such histrionics. That is because, while I'm gone for the next three days, you'll be treated to the stunning genius of J.D. Meyer. Not only is he the greatest humorist of our time, bar none, but he is also one of the most talented emcees to ever grab the mic and bust a rhyme, and one of the most skillful lovers to ever grace another's flesh with his ninja's tingling touch.
Enjoy him, but not too much, for I will return Friday.
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So while I understand on some level it's unwarranted and that I'm probably being manipulated by the company's marketing machine, and while I also understand it's remarkably dorky to "root" for one computer company over another, I'm always rooting for Apple.
On the other hand, I'm always rooting against Yoko Ono. I realize it's kind of a cliched stance. And as I'm not what could be called a Beatlemanic by any stretch of the imagination, I suppose it's even more ridiculous to have feelings toward Yoko one way or another. Still, the very thought of her makes my skin crawl. I don't know whether she broke up the band, I don't know whether she screwed Julian out of his father's money, and I don't know whether she's an artistic fraud. My dislike for her is even more ridiculous than my like for Apple. At least I'm an Apple user and can, therefore, claim some kind of personal interest in their plight. I know almost nothing of Yoko -- I've never heard her records, I couldn't tell you when she became involved with John Lennon, and I've only heard about the movie of the fly and her boob.
Upon hearing about the Apple Corps lawsuit filed against Apple Computer, I reacted predictably: I became enraged that Yoko, Corrupter of All Things Pure, has the gall to claim that the use of "Apple" in conjunction with the iPod and the iTunes music store is an infrigement on the Beatles' copyright.
Of course, I have no idea what level of involvement Yoko has in Apple Corps, but I doubt it's any greater than that of Paul or Ringo. I suspect she is barely cognizant of the suit. And I realize that Apple Computer's paid out a number of settlements to Apple Corps in the past, and that some of these settlements forbade Apple Computer to use the name Apple in the music industry. Still, I find this action -- an action I imagine to be carried out at the personal behest of the Unholy Yoko -- to be deplorable and exploitive.
If nothing else, this should prove once and for all that I'm mercurial at best and utterly irrational at worst.
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Friday, September 12, 2003
We all remember her visionary work in Triumph of the Will -- a film that made attempts at the extermination of a race seem like nothing short of poetic justice. But her oevre is so much more than that. Perhaps you've never seen her comedies. Shylock the Moneylending Parasite of Krakow was particularly hilarious.
But let's be honest. This isn't about Leni. It's about me, my vanity, and my everpresent fear of death and its unrelenting instrument of torture, aging. Anyone who has seen Olympia is familiar with Leni's fetishization of youth. She was quite lovely in her day and supposedly incredibly vain, so I'd imagine becoming what's below must have been nothing short of torture.
I use "torture" here less literally than, say, how you might use it to describe enduring maniacal experiments for months on end in Auschwitz.
Before
After
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Thursday, September 11, 2003
Still, I think it's safe to say that we as a nation are now faced with a possibility more frightening than an asteroid turning New Mexico to a giant dust cloud. It's that some of those idiots might have been right. Of course, I don't think it's because they're particularly insightful or familiar with the intricacies of middle east policy. If you protest everything, you'll be right eventually. Regardless, this whole Iraq thing isn't panning out all that great. I think the Vietnam comparisons are probably more than a little bit of overstatement, but the sentiment might be accurate.
In the middle of all this, we've got campaigns going. That's good. Of course, there is the problem that, no matter what I end up deciding, Bush will be re-elected without breaking a sweat, thanks to his amazing fund-raising abilities, his inspirational public speaking, his central role in the Masonic Illuminati conspiracy, and to the DNC for being completely incapable of putting an electable candidate on the ballot.
I suppose I'm excited that Wesley Clark is throwing his hat in the ring, though I'm not sure why. I don't remember Kosovo going all that great. I also think it's kind of funny that the wacky little man from Vermont offered him the VP spot and was rejected. If anything, I suspect it'd wind up going the other way around.
More than anything, though, I wish Joe would shut up and quit already. America will elect an Hispanic before it elects a Jew, and you heard that here first, Amigo.
Isn't it nice when I break it down political stylee? People would pay good money for that, but they don't.
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Wednesday, September 10, 2003
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Tuesday, September 09, 2003
First, here's a story about some naked protestors. Apparently they've decided that revealing their goodies is the best way to convince people that the World Trade Organization is a force for evil. Below is an excerpt from the article:
"We are not here to throw sticks or stones," said Rafael Alegria, international secretary of the farm group Via Campesina. "We are here to send a clear and ringing message: Take agriculture out of the WTO talks and look at my penis."
In related news, there's this interesting tidbit on an offer made to prospective strippers wherein a club owner will provide tuition disbursement to women or men who dance while in school. In addition to the standard wages of sin, they'll receive a two grand stipend so long as they maintain a B or above average. It's like the GI Bill, except with more lap dancing. Or, it's getting a full ride for giving a full ride.
And finally, the coeds that accept the scholarship can expect to pay for books with some ugly new twenties that smell like G-string.
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Monday, September 08, 2003
I say this for the benefit of new readers -- those right now caught in the precious and few moments after they've stumbled upon this site and before they recognize my genius and insight, a recognition which quickly gives way to awe, tingling psychosexual arousal, and unadulterated fandemonium. Regular readers won't confuse the misogyny below with the actual hating of women, but the neophyte may.
I know you're wondering what hot-button topic warrants this kind of prolegomenon. It's Greatest Actor of His Generation, Tom Sizemore, and the trials, metaphorical and actual, that have been unjustly thrust upon him.
The CNN article discusses allegations outlined in a lawsuit filed by one Paulina Briones, Sizemore's personal assistant. She claims that, as Sizemore's assistant, she was required to wake him up, field his calls, fetch him soft drinks, and prepare methamphetamines and Vicodin for his consumption. For accomplishing these tasks satisfactorily, she was paid $1,500 each week. That's $72,000 each year.
Doctors and college professors make less than that in many parts of the country, and all Briones had to do was deliver the Pepsi cold and cut a decent line.
Sure, she also alleges that Sizemore once answered the door naked and requested she perform a sex act in exchange for $5,000. The article doesn't specify which sex act, so for all we know it could have been a simple hand job, or perhaps even any act of her choosing, and maybe not even on or near Sizemore. If anything, Sizemore should be convicted of overpaying.
Regardless, what's really got my goat here is that Briones named CBS as a defendant in her lawsuit simply because the fine, unjustly cancelled Robbery Homicide Division was shooting during her employment. Even if Sizemore had physically restrained her with silken lashes, administered suppository doses of peyote, doused her with India ink, and beaten her about the head and neck with his genitalia, I don't think CBS would have anything to do with it.
And that's why I'm taking this brave stand here and now. I demand CBS be dropped from Briones v. Sizemore, et al.
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Sunday, September 07, 2003
Addressing immigration issues, paraphrased:
First, we've got to stop profiling. It doesn't work in Hispanic communities, it doesn't work in African American communities, and it doesn't work in Arab communities. Second, that 9/11 should impact immigration from Latin America is ridiculous. The last time I checked, not one of the sixteen 9/11 hijackers was Latino.
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Saturday, September 06, 2003
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Friday, September 05, 2003
Ten people were wounded and one man was killed. Once can only hope he finds peace among the happy haunts of The Haunted Mansion.
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Thursday, September 04, 2003
"What future?" you might ask.
Our children, you fucking idiot. I believe the children are our future, so we must recognize the difficulties they face day to day. We must take a stand and speak out for the sake of the younkers, for they are the leaders and caretakers and peacemakers of tomorrow.
That's why I support Our Great Miss America, Erika Harold, and her crusade against bullying.
"Bullying?" you might retardedly query. "What harm is there in this ages-old schoolyard rite of passage?"
Well, you ignorant hatemonger, perhaps you'd better take a look at this highly illuminating study. Not only does it show that bullies are more likely to become criminals, but it also shows that victims of bullying are more likely to be depressed, or even suicidal.
I know, I know. Back when you and I attended school, bullying was an innocent, almost joyful activity. Whether on the giving or receiving end of the good natured abuse, we walked away fulfilled. Hurling taunts of "fatty fatty, two by four" wasn't a misguided attempt to sooth wounds inflicted by an over-critical father or drug-abusing mother, and being shoved roughly into a garbage can with a "homo" sign stapled to your back didn't result in a cripplingly distorted self-image.
Those days are over, you pimple-faced bitch. Today's children face even more rigorous bullying than ever before, and lest we become a nation of parolees and sallow-skinned nancy boys unable to even ask a girl out let along get laid, we must meet Miss America's call to arms, and remember her brave words.
"It started out with people calling me names, and then it got worse. They threw things at me, they vandalized my house, and they sang nasty songs about me in school hallways and classrooms."
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Wednesday, September 03, 2003
Call me old fashioned, but I remember well the days when moms were merciless administrators of punishment, unintentional dyers pink of socks, bargers in of rooms just when you're poised to poke Suzy's sunshine with a grubby forefinger, and pickers-up late from the mall. In my day, they weren't flawed people, they were evil-doers that tirelessly plotted against you. But if the news is to be believed, these days they're something different altogether. They're the kind of chicks you'd meet at a shitty bar a half an hour before closing.
I really don't want to trivialize being drowned at age four, though I suspect I'm about to. I also have to be clear that I've never spent a birthday at the go kart track, so I don't know the disappointment felt when such an event is promised, then snatched away. I suspect it's great disappointment, because I have been go karting, just not on a birthday, and it's lots of fun. Further, I should clarify that I've never drowned, and I offer this post as evidence of it. I can also say without much hesitation that I've never been close to drowning.
So, while I obviously have very little experience in these matters, I think that, speaking as a teenaged boy, I'd rather be drowned than have my mother strip for myself and a group of my friends, no matter how much beer we were offered. The police report describes a drunken, stoned mother dancing, stripping, and grabbing the crotches of the son's friends, while the son screamed and raged. The report also points out that the hotel room's amenities included a hot tub. Frankly, I'm surprised the son didn't drown himself.
A boy's teens can difficult enough without being known as the guy whose mother loves to get fucked up and fuck if the go kart track isn't open.
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Tuesday, September 02, 2003
While the plan ultimately failed, I think we can all agree that the choice of victim, a pizza delivery man, was pure genius on a number of levels.
Though the FBI and local police remain tight-lipped about suspects while they continue to gather evidence, it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that Dennis Hopper is behind the plot.
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