When I was much younger than I am now, I had these rubber costume hands. They weren't gloves, exactly, as they were much larger than my actual hands. They were fairly rigid so that when I moved to close my hand the fingers kind of flopped over and folded at the first knuckle joint. The hands were bumpy and textured on the outside and smooth inside, and that after a few minutes of wear they became quite humid.
These costume hands weren't part of a specific get-up, exactly. They were just kind of big, crazy Halloween hands. Seeing an eight-year-old me in them must have been either frightening or hilarious.
They looked like this:
Analogcabin @ 3:59 PM ------------------------- I had a fine weekend, thanks, though it was touch and go Saturday afternoon. You see, Joanna Newsom had engaged to perform a matinee -- an event about which I was quite excited. I'd seen her a year earlier and in the elapsed months had only grown more enthusiastic about her music. Additionally, a matinee sounded to me like such a civilized event. I looked forward to seats, a polite and silent audience, and perhaps warm drinks like cider. Analogcabin @ 10:43 AM ------------------------- According to the UN, the world's population will reach 9.1 billion by 2050, with half of that in nine countries -- India, China, Pakistan, Nigeria, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Bangladesh, Uganda, Ethiopia, and the US. Top ten, baby. Suck it, France.
Analogcabin @ 9:24 AM ------------------------- As the several fans of The Spoonbender know, I'm not a believer in stereotypes. Jews are not shifty and money-grubbing, and they do not have large noses. Hispanics are not all lazy, nor do they prefer to carpool. Blacks are not especially athletic, and they are not prone to excessive public displays of emotion. Asians are not "human computers," and they drive as well as any of us. There's nothing genetically wrong with the British. And despite what you might have been raised to believe, women can be reasonable and trustworthy.
Analogcabin @ 9:47 AM ------------------------- Could this mean we're finally going to get the "They Dance Alone" sequel we've all been praying for? One can only hope something wonderful comes out of this tragedy.
Analogcabin @ 3:10 PM ------------------------- And for the ladies in the house that don't believe in the benevolence of God, He's whittling away at Korn. It's not burying them in a garbage landslide, but it's progress.
Analogcabin @ 7:07 AM ------------------------- Here's one for all the ladies in the house that believe in the benevolence of God. Analogcabin @ 9:52 AM ------------------------- I don't claim to know which of Jessica Coen's books are underlined and which are dog-eared, but there's something about her memorialization of Hunter S. Thompson I find a little... offputting. Sure, it's overwrought and overwritten, but anyone reading this knows I'm into that sort of thing. No. It's something else. It reads as though she's trying to convince us of something. Analogcabin @ 11:32 AM ------------------------- Analogcabin @ 8:42 AM ------------------------- Analogcabin @ 7:41 AM ------------------------- Analogcabin @ 12:04 PM ------------------------- Apprentice vixen Omarosa Manigault-Stallworth charged the show's producers with stereotyping black contestants yesterday. She said that all the African-American men on the show are portrayed as "lazy and laid-back and nonassertive and nonaggressive" and that the women are "shown to be quite the opposite," although she likely meant that they, like her, appear to be deceitful harpies.
Analogcabin @ 8:43 AM ------------------------- If there's one thing I hate more than books, it's book reviews. It's such a mossy kind of writing -- slippery intimations about stale characters most readers will never know and unnecessary glimpses of soft and ugly authors nobody cares to see. At least when it's a TV movie review, they're usually talking about someone I would like to have sex with. Like a Catherine Bell, or an Erin Gray. Or even an Evening Shade era Marilu Henner. But book reviews? I just want to say to these people, "So, now what? I'm supposed to read this? Reading's for dorks, Oldy McLoser."
Analogcabin @ 1:46 PM ------------------------- For those of you who haven't been following the Jeff Gannon story, AMERICAblog will catch you up.
Analogcabin @ 2:15 PM ------------------------- I'm sure some of you are familiar with the concept of a "to do list." For those who are not, it's a list, either actual or existing only in the mind, consisting of things one needs to do. For example, Jimmy Buffett's to do list might look like this: Analogcabin @ 9:51 AM ------------------------- Sometimes I read things and I can't believe they're happening in real life. It's like a Michael Crichton story, except there's no hot shot young attorney saving the day. Analogcabin @ 8:19 AM ------------------------- According to this article, Keith Lazarchik made a "split second decision" to tackle "mall gunman" Robert Bonelli. For this he's been hailed as a hero and interviewed on Good Morning America. Analogcabin @ 8:36 AM ------------------------- The Broward County Sheriff's Office is on the lookout for a couple who were seen tossing a newborn baby out of their moving car, and then speeding away. Another driver spotted the incident, and, after noticing that the bundle was moving, stopped to investigate. In the grass by the side of the road she found a newborn baby with a plastic grocery bag over its head. After heroically uncovering its head, she drove the child to the Broward County Sheriff's Office.
Analogcabin @ 9:55 AM ------------------------- The downside of North Korea's claim that they have nuclear weapons is that, with a little luck and the right wind, they could take me out. The upside is that then I wouldn't have to suffer through the inevitable live coverage of this.
Analogcabin @ 9:12 AM ------------------------- First there was Mary Kay LeTourneau, and I was intrigued. She was cute, but not really hot in a sexual way. It was more of a theoretical thing. She was hot because she was a teacher and she just couldn't stop herself, you know? But she had crazy eyes like homeless people have crazy eyes. And while that's a helpful indication that a girl is gettable if you're willing to play the right cards, it's always a gamble. There's always that chance you'll wind up with her sticking a steak knife in your liver.
Analogcabin @ 9:36 AM ------------------------- As you might imagine, I support the theatrical rerelease of Deep Throat, but not so much that I'll, like, go. My support is more sentimental.
Analogcabin @ 9:41 AM ------------------------- If you're like me and you've seen Stripes you too are probably finding it difficult to accept that mud wrestling is no longer OK in the army. But apparently lightening the mood after a few months loosing dogs on detainees by shedding your ODs and getting wet just won't fly if the crappiest newspaper in town gets a hold of the snapshots.
Analogcabin @ 3:24 PM ------------------------- I mean, of course a high angle shot of sweaty tufts stuck to a head is unattractive, but is there anything more offputting than an overgroomed beard? Out of the frying pan, into the fire.
Analogcabin @ 8:41 AM ------------------------- It's Friday, friends and fans, but as we prepare to Thank God with liters of oversweet margaritas and tiny plates filled again and again with warmish potato skins and limp nachos, I offer you this cautionary tale. It tells of Matthew Carrington -- a 21-year-old Chico State student who died while pledging what's got to be the lamest fraternity ever.
Analogcabin @ 9:25 AM ------------------------- If there's one thing America hates more than black people with money, it's Indian givers. Even if they are Indian giving to 'cappers.
Analogcabin @ 11:34 AM ------------------------- America scored a major blow against the Enemies of Freedom today when it was discovered that a photograph of a purportedly kidnapped American soldier named "John Adam" was actually of an action figure named Special Ops Cody.
Analogcabin @ 1:12 AM ------------------------- CNN.com -- Your Source for Breaking, Predictable News
Analogcabin @ 3:20 PM ------------------------- I realize that many of you think that I am a horrible animal, composed of equal parts malice, bigotry, shenanigans, hubris, tomfoolery, and unadulterated comedy, and that I walk through life spewing vitriol out of my engorged, inflamed genitals.
Analogcabin @ 9:18 AM -------------------------
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Upon arriving at the prescribed venue, I was somewhat chagrined that there was a line of people waiting to enter. I was perhaps the fifteenth person in it, but as it grew to 200 or more, I counted my good fortune. I scanned my fellows for signs of trouble and was pleased that no one seemed particularly boisterous. At risk of stereotyping, it was the kind of audience you'd expect to see at a Joanna Newsom show. Quiet, generally pale and slightly sad-seeming, clad mostly in rougher knit wools and comfortable-looking shoes, and holding all manner of notebooks, diaries, and sketchpads. Regardless of your taste in music, these are the people you want in the audience. They're appreciative and would do virtually anything to avoid contact with another person, so loud-talking or bumping are highly unlikely.
Then Riddle came.
Riddle will tell you that he's six feet tall because that sounds better when coupled with "250," but he's probably three inches less than that and twenty pounds more. His navy blue fleece pullover covers his innertube well, though, and it is utterly at home matched with his very ill-fitting khaki pants. His New Balance shoes are for trail-running, and, though he says he's always up for J Tree or ultimate Frisbee, Riddle never quite gets around to either.
In the last few years Riddle's hair has begun to change, but his haircut has not. His hairline isn't receding and he hasn't developed a bald spot. And his hair isn't thinning in the way you generally think of hair being thin -- like straight or limp. No, it's as coarse and curly as it ever was when he was 15. It's just kind of becoming transparent. Look at it in the right light, it's wonderful and bushy and dense. But in another light, it's a haze that barely obscures every detail of his shining scalp.
Riddle's voice is deep and booming, he likes the way it sounds, and he loves to use it. Everyone at the agency says that Riddle's the funniest guy they've ever met. He's the best at happy hours and at offsites, because he's the only one who can get the boss to loosen up, and on a business trip... well, he's out of fucking control. He's just a great guy, and hasn't changed a bit since college.
Riddle's totally into all kinds of music. I mean, he digs the Pixies and fucking loves the Beastie Boys and Chemical Brothers and shit like that, but he's up for whatever. Now, granted, he doesn't really get the Joanna Newsom thing, but if you've got the ticket, he's always up for a show. Especially since it's in the afternoon, because there's this fucking awesome rave in Alameda sponsored by Scion -- you know, the car company? Anyway, Mixmaster Mike is spinning, and it's going to be off the hook. After this folkie show, Riddle's going to rally over there. It's totally exclusive and you have to RSVP, but Riddle and some buddies each RSVP'ed plus four, so you guys should be cool.
There were three opening acts, and Riddle never missed the opportunity to voice his feelings about their performances. And, as two of these acts were not advertsed, he became increasingly concerned that he'd miss the Scion pre-party at his buddy's house. Riddle's consternation everntually overcame his love for "whatever" kind of music, and he fomented for an early departure while mocking the "folkies" in attendance. "They have funny clothes!" "Look at their dour faces!" "Where's the flood, highwater?"
In the end, Riddle stayed for the show and he didn't speak once. Considering that he'd barely stopped up to that point, I was amazed and thrilled. If you're reading this, Riddle, I want to thank you and I hope I never see you again.
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Friday, February 25, 2005
If there's one thing we third world countries know how to do, it's fuck.
"Cozy," of how the world might look in 2050.
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Thursday, February 24, 2005
But news stories like this make my job smashing our dangerous and ignorant conceptions about people difficult. I mean, just because a 24-year-old man is named something like Clarence Lacey Moore and lives in Columbus, Georgia with five children, three of which may or may not be his, doesn't mean that he's a cracker destined to stab them kids with his daddy's hunting knife.
After slitting his own throat, Clarence Lacey Moore's neck now really is red.
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Wednesday, February 23, 2005
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Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Imagine it: You're already living in Indonesia -- outside of Africa, this has got to be one of the worst places to live, like, ever. Unless you're into sex with young boys, then it's pretty awesome. So anyway, there you are, totally pissed that you live in a hovel insulated with, like, pig shit or something. It's hotter than fuck, you're sweating your balls off, and there hasn't been a bar of soap in your village since the Reagan administration. You've totally ignored the three rules of real estate by building near a dump, but, honestly, what's the diff in a landscape like this one? You're just starting to feel OK about things because you didn't get washed away in a tsunami like most of the people in this neck of the woods, when you hear a rumble that would be outside your door if you had a door.
What? What's that?
You get up off the dirty floor, look through the hole in the wall past the swarm of horrible insects, and see a wave of refuse flowing downhill toward you.
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Monday, February 21, 2005
I know what it is: That she's a journalist!
Listen. I have no problem with gossip. While I'll admit that I find the image of young women kvetching and retching their way through Manhattan's finest restaurants on the expense account of some PR homunculus repugnant, I recognize that there's an audience that demands semi-satisfaction. Enter Coen, eager to get turned out, and Denton, just the man to do it.
What bugs me is when said trollop takes time from her tripe to explain to us, the ignorant many, the significance of Thompson's work. How it is not, as we might foolishly suspect, depressing or nihilistic, but that it is, upon closer, more brilliant inspection, actually "funny and hopeful."
She closes her obit by sharing with us one of her favorite Thompson passages:
But our trip was different. It was a classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent in the national character. It was a gross, physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country -- but only for those with true grit. And we were chock full of that.
And without further ado, she returns to the important business of posting Paris Hilton's personal phone book and speculating about what drugs "Dr. Pat" might be helping her to overcome.
I don't know if Hunter Thompson was a journalist or not, but when he turned someone inside out, it was usually himself.
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Myths and legends die hard in America. We love them for the extra dimension they provide, the illusion of near-infinite possibility to erase the narrow confines of most men's reality. Weird heroes and mould-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of "the rat race" is not yet final.
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Myths and legends die hard in America. We love them for the extra dimension they provide, the illusion of near-infinite possibility to erase the narrow confines of most men's reality. Weird heroes and mould-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of "the rat race" is not yet final.
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Friday, February 18, 2005
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Thursday, February 17, 2005
Omarosa Manigault-Stallworth, shown above eating her favorite treat, has the whitest teeth, sings like a bird, and could dance the shoes off a horse.
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Wednesday, February 16, 2005
But what's worse, what really insults my intelligence, are the book reviews that masquerade as articles about a promising new author or an old one that's made a comeback. They usually include a quote from some Oprah author, like Wally Lamb, and are filled biographical information on the author. I always get the impression that these reviewers just got sucked off by some publisher's PR girl, and are more than happy to blanket the book in nonspecific, lukewarm praise in return.
And what's even worse than all that is when the book in question is well-nigh an autobiography, and its central concerns are how hard it is to grow up rich or in boarding school.
When the author is a woman with a man's name? Why, that's simply to much to bear. Read this and tell me that you disagree.
She has the name of a travelling trash compactor salesman, Curtis Sittenfeld, and she wrote a book about how hard it is to be an outsider at a Boston prep school very much like Groton, her alma mater. How about this one, Curtis? How about you shut the fuck up and go learn something about tough times? Maybe teach at a public school in the Mississippi delta, but watch out -- they saddle things that look like you down there.
Why the long face, Curtis?
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Tuesday, February 15, 2005
After reading it all I know this much: I may love gay hookers, but not as much as the Bush administration.
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Here you see that Jimmy has listed tasks in the order necessary for the completion of certain other tasks. For example, he needs to get guitar strings before he can tune his guitar. And while he could lure the brown girl into his mansion earlier, say, after writing the silly lyrics, he seems to think it would be better to get the saccharine song taken care of first.
This technique is called prioritization, and apparently it does not exist in the world of science. To wit, the study of whether lobsters can feel pain.
It's not that I misunderstand the stakes. On one side of the issue is the fishing industry, Maine's tourism board, and restaurants like Red Lobster. On the other is anyone with an interest, cheritable or otherwise, in putting a stop to the lobstercaust -- animal rights organizations, makers of imitation lobster and crabmeat, and perhaps the lobsters themselves. Lobsters generate billions of dollars every year, and the discovery that the high pitched whistle emitted as one is dunked into a pot of boiling water with salt and lemon is actually a shriek of agony could literally cut that by as much as five percent.
It's just that, were I in charge of science's to do list, I might push the lobster thing down a little bit. Below cancer, for example, and making fusion work as a power source.
Feelin' no pain.
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And don't get me wrong. I'm sure many other administrations, Republican and Democrat, have been involved in some highly questionable things. But it's as though the Bush people don't even try to hide it. It's like they dare you to say something about it so they can smear you or smash you or make you disappear.
-- Via Double Flea A
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Monday, February 14, 2005
Now as you all know, I'm an expert in many things -- chief among them is the artful science of lovemaking. I am not, however, an expert in heroism. But I'd venture to say that read the article and you don't have to be an expert to see that calling Lazarchik a hero is kind of a stretch.
It all started when Bonelli pulled out an assault rifle in Best Buy. Why? Perhaps he was frustrated with their selection of Josh Groban CD's, but we may never know. The mind of the criminal is a horrible mystery. After firing a "several shots" in the store, Bonelli exited into the mall and fired more shots. It was at this point that Dick's Sporting Goods employee Lazarchik began to follow Bonelli.
"I didn't approach him right away. I just followed him. I was creeping up behind him as he was walking down the mall shooting," described Lazarchik.
After firing more shots, Bonelli dropped the weapon to the ground and stopped walking. Bonelli then raised his hands above his head. It was at this point that Lazarchik made his "split second decision" and struck with his coworkers from the shadows like troupe of upstate ninjas.
"He was standing there with his hands in the air and we just grabbed him and sat on him until police came," said Phil Dudek, a co-worker of Lazarkchik's.
So it's great that Lazarchik and company were available to sit on Bonelli, but wouldn't a real hero have, like, tried to actually stop him from shooting? I'm sure that, all things being equal, the two people Bonelli hit have preferred he make that "split second decision."
Maybe I'm being unfair. Maybe I'm dismissing the frightening circumstances or the menace with which Bonelli dropped his weapon and reached for the sky. But I ask you this: Would a fireman that waited until the inferno burned itself out before he rushed into the ruins be considered a hero?
Kington Police, above, waited until the coast was clear before heroically driving the suspect to jail.
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Friday, February 11, 2005
"There was no rain in the forecast for Ft. Lauderdale yesterday, so we suspect the plastic bag might have been meant for something other than keeping the baby dry," said Sheriff's Office investigator Justin Molton. "The baby also does not feel especially slippery, and does not seem to be able to jump or leap in any way. Also, according to the witness, the car slowed down to a speed of approximately five miles an hour prior to the incident. This all seems to indicate the act was intentional on the part of the parents, though we haven't yet ruled out an accident."
According to the witness, the driver of the car was a black male wearing an "Afro hairstyle" and the passenger was a white female in braids. The couple appeared to be arguing just prior to the incident. They are now being sought for charges ranging from littering to attempted murder.
"While we haven't yet determined the exact nature of this crime, I think it serves as further proof that race mixing is a bad idea. Period. The relationships are combative and the mulatto children are treated like trash, literally," said Sheriff Kurt Jeanne. "Fathers, if your daughters are doing things like braiding their hair in the colored-style or listening to that jungle music, you owe it to them to beat the nigger-lover out of 'em before it's your beige grandchild they're tossing out of a car in a plastic bag."
"'Afro hairstyle,'" Jeanne muttered, "Typical."
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Thursday, February 10, 2005
Britain's Prince Charles, above left, pictured with his tampon wielding whore. Now I'm no clotheshorse, but that's a pretty rad suit. Being an impotent figurehead of a failing empire has it's privileges.
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Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Then there was Deborah Beasley Lefave, and there's no point in denying that I was aroused. We all were. Sure, her lips were a little weird and the corners of her mouth turned up like The Joker, but the minor flaws somehow made her look even sluttier. It was that porn star sluttiness coupled with the image of her teaching you reading that was the recipe for the kind of perfection usually reserved for Penthouse Letters.
Now there's Pamela Joan Turner, and, to borrow a line from an old Acetone song, I've enjoyed about as much of this as I can stand.
The story is that she was staying at her teenaged "victim's" house temporarily while in the process of moving into a new home. From there we can assume that one thing led to another -- perhaps his articulate charm, worldly wisdom, and intelligent humor coupled with a few too many glasses of a delightful Cab and her own loneliness. In the end, though, it's what the Warren County prosecutors allege that matters -- that the 27-year-old hot, blonde gym teacher taught that boy lessons that he'll never unlearn. 28 counts worth of lessons.
In the past I feel as though I've taken these incidents too lightly. Clearly that's why they continue. But my concern isn't for the well-being of the students -- God knows they're doing well enough on their own. Nor is it for the teachers. My concern is for all men of America over the age of 18.
For months magazines like People have been telling us that the Ashton Kutcher / Demi Moore relationship is proof that older women coupling with younger men is the hot thing right now. I don't normally go to those publications for information on sociological trending, but the LeTourneau, Lefave, and Turner incidents certainly seem to support the idea. A bar has been lowered in America, and it has left men like me -- that is to say, men of legal age -- too tall to ride the hot teacher ride.
And we're doubly cursed. Not only are we made to behold the quarry of these manchildren and admire their feat -- something we were unable to accomplish at their age, but we're also forced to realize that nor could we accomplish it now, for women these days are obviously looking for something a little more hairless.
It is a sea change, men of America. We rushed to meet the waves, the tide came in, and I'm afraid that we're drowning.
Pamela Turner, above, looking coy, delightful, and ready to teach what she knows.
Pamela Turner, above, looking coy, delightful, and on her way to jail.
Pamela Turner, above, looking coy, delightful, and fucking mocking us all, the whore.
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Tuesday, February 08, 2005
I first saw the film when I was in my early teens. It was dubbed onto a VHS tape intentionally mislabeled "Moscow Music Peace Festival" by a Phillippino acquaintance named Kevin Quiembao. Suffice it to say, the first viewing touched me.
Times change. Though my friendship with Kevin ended when I knocked out one of his front teeth for staring at my girlfriend's ass, I think of him fondly. And though the tape he gave me was lost long ago, I remember it still. In fact, I'd speculate that the film impacted psychologically in ways I can't articulate and may never fully realize.
But, like, see it in a theater? That's a little skeevy, isn't it?
So while my person will not been in line when the box offices open, my heart will be. In my soul I'll be singing the film's unforgettable theme: "Deep throat, the deeper the deep your throat...."
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Monday, February 07, 2005
If we've given up this, is there anything left worth fighting for?
Support our troops.
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Friday, February 04, 2005
You see, his Chi Tau pledgemasters forced him to "[drink] water from a five-gallon jug and [do] exercises" until he died of hyponatremia, or water intoxication. Now I don't claim to be completely in touch with what's cool these days, but back when I was in college being in a frat meant, like, having fun. I'm talking beer bongs, homoerotic paddlings, and the occasional date rape, not calesthenics and hydration.
So this weekend, let's all try to learn Matthew's lesson: Stay safe, have fun, and drink alcohol.
RIP Matthew Carrington, who didn't even die of a cool pledging accident, like drinking 100 shots of tequila and trying to fuck a brown bear.
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Thursday, February 03, 2005
For those keeping score at home, that's blacks, Indians, and the handicapped.
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Wednesday, February 02, 2005
"We relieved to hear that John Adam is safe and undoubtedly enjoying the company of his comrades John Smith, John McDonalds, John David, and David John," said Staff Sgt. Nick Minecci of the Army public information office in Baghdad. "As for Special Ops Cody, if you can hear this, stay strong, for soon we will bring your captors to justice."
The organization that claimed to have held John Adam, known as Al Mujahadeen Brigade, has long toiled in the shadow of better known and more reputable Islamist factions such as Al Qaeda. Analysts agree that the embarrassing revelation that they kidnapped an action figure, no matter how realistic, will further tarnish their reputation in the terror community.
"I mean an action figure? And calling him John Adam? That's like the infidel Americans calling us Mohammad Al Carbomb or something. This incident casts a negative light on all of us," said Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, currently one of Al Qaeda's rising stars.
Special Ops Cody, above, is thought to have be taken hostage due to his lack of a kung-fu grip.
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Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Pope Hospitalized, Sky Blue
Arrgh! La mia testa sta circa per esplodere con il "oldness!"
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I speak metaphorically, of course.
While some of that might be true, I think it's important that you all know that I am human. My intelligence and sexiness may at times seem superhuman, but I am only the übermensch in the Third Reich sense of the term. There's nothing more human than an intense fear of death. And that, friends and fans, is something I have in spades.
Sure, I fear death because I worry for those left to roam the world without the beacon that is my glorious wordplay. In fact each night I weep a single, silent tear for those yet unborn who will never know the joy that is me. But mostly I fear death for the reason poets and playwrights have struggled to articulate for centuries: I don't want to not exist anymore.
I'll pause for you to wipe away the tears of sympathy, empathy, and ideopathy.
This is all a roundabout way to discuss the news that doctors, those magnificent bastards, may have found a way to detect Alzheimer's disease early. I know I'm not the only one to have lost a relative to this terrible disease, and I every time I can't find my keys I shudder and wonder about genetics. On the upside, though, once you get past the first stages of the disease, it's probably a better way to go than, say, spina bifita. I mean, after you've lost any sense of who or where you are, I'd guess that existential crises don't occur with quite the same frequency as they would normally.
But an Alzheimer's early warning test totally ruins that. It makes it so that you have even more time to consider your fate and that, doctors, isn't something I want. I mean, it's not like you can cure it either way, right? So why would I want to know that I'm going to get it?
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