Tapes 'n Tapes, The Iliad: Ambition: they've put out several singles in the course of a few short weeks. I love it. They're not afraid to do whatever will work for the particular song, and foist it on the listening public. I enjoy the influence of neatly crafted 60s pop in this one. 7.5/10
The Kinks, Dedicated Follower Of Fashion: The Damned and their contemporaries would have gone nowhere had it not been for the Kinks sneering at dandies. A jaunty, jangly pop in the mouth to 60s mod metrosexuals. Classic. 8.5/10
Band of Horses, The Funeral: Chris Martin, is that you? Starts out "ooh-oohing" as a mid- to early-80s rock ballad, settles quickly into cookie-cutter 21st century indie. No really, it's bearable, but for some reason reminds me of the front man for Coldplay doing lead vocals for a Chicago tribute band (with not a little Shins tossed in). 4/10
The Dandy Warhols, Minnesoter. Courtney, Courtney, Courtney. Lay off the pipe or the gel-tabs or the peyote or whatever it is, clean your act up for, like, 28 days, and then get back to songwriting. What happened? You used to be sexy and talented. Now you're turning into a Wal-Mart knock-off of Iggy Pop. Eek. This is so phoned in: deadly dull standard arrangements, lyrics written on a bar napkin after a fifth of vodka. Is nobody in that band even trying any more? 3/10
Editors, Bullets: WHO. WILL. BE. THE. NEW. JOY DIVISION?!?! In the Red corner, the creepy and slightly autistic-seeming Interpol. And in the Blue corner, THE REPETITIVE EDITORS! Will either of them walk away from this fight? You know, the way that everyone else already has? 2/10
Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Gold Lion: This is the most fun they've been since starting out on the road to pop-stardom. Sharp, poppy, rocking in a way few other bands choose to be. Extra points 'coz in the video Karen O looks like a Satanic Dorothy Hamill in gold lamé. 8/10
Camper Van Beethoven, Take The Skinheads Bowling: An old favorite for which I have a super soft spot. 'Nuff said. 7/10
Film School, On & On: I've heard enough stuff just like this. Utterly boring, even if it is crafted well and embellished with lovely pretty boy singing. Listenable, but forgettable. 4/10
The High Dials, Our Time Is Coming Soon: You know what pop music today needs more of? Sitar music, that's what. Sitar music and psychedelic codas. Eat your hearts out, ghosts of the Brill Building. 7.5/10
Gene Vincent, Woman Love: Like Elvis, but not. And I don't mind. My critical faculties turn to mush when confronted with sexy rockabilly boys. Brylcreme duck's asses, gingham shirts, cuffed blue jeans, pointy boots -- extra points for vintage-looking tattoos and a Betty Paige-esque ex-appendage. And this is what they listen to. So... 7/10
SIRIUSly Though...
3.31.2006
Ore : 7:55 AM
Ore : 7:55 AM
The Kiss of Death
3.30.2006
Ore : 6:45 AM
Ore : 6:45 AM
The shake-up that wasn't going to happen continues. Now it seems that Josh Bolten feels John Snow hasn't been getting enough people to clap (and you know, every time someone says he or she doesn't believe the federal deficit is harmless, NASDAQ drops a point). And when McClellan says this:
... [T]he president appreciates the great job that Secretary Snow is doing, he is an important member of our economic team.
... One can pretty much see what's coming.
In addition, Bolten seems to be eyeballing for the position, among others, such free-market luminaries as "Henry Paulson, chief executive of Goldman Sachs; John Mack, chief executive of Morgan Stanley, and Richard Parsons, chairman of Time Warner".
My guess? If any one of those guys gets into a closed door session to talk with Bush and Cheney about the current regime's economic policies, the both will wish the interviewee had just gone ahead and shot them in the face.
And no gloating that LGFers' and Freepers' fantasies of another MSM journalist getting decapitated have gone unfulfilled. Just this: w00t! Welcome back, Jill.
... [T]he president appreciates the great job that Secretary Snow is doing, he is an important member of our economic team.
... One can pretty much see what's coming.
In addition, Bolten seems to be eyeballing for the position, among others, such free-market luminaries as "Henry Paulson, chief executive of Goldman Sachs; John Mack, chief executive of Morgan Stanley, and Richard Parsons, chairman of Time Warner".
My guess? If any one of those guys gets into a closed door session to talk with Bush and Cheney about the current regime's economic policies, the both will wish the interviewee had just gone ahead and shot them in the face.
* * *
And no gloating that LGFers' and Freepers' fantasies of another MSM journalist getting decapitated have gone unfulfilled. Just this: w00t! Welcome back, Jill.
Pythagoras Weeps
3.29.2006
Ore : 8:58 AM
Ore : 8:58 AM
Looks like The Korner Kids (or at least, Michael Rubin) have learned how to calculate a hypotenuse:
If the Bush administration does not stand up for its friends in the region, it will soon learn it has none. Willingness to stand up for dissidents is more powerful than any message Karen Hughes can give.
Note not only the sudden obsession with Neila Charchour Hachicha, but the language itself, crafted to give the impression of a gauntlet thrown at the feet of the Bush administration. Now, George was willing to cut short his barbed-wire-stringin' and brush clearin' for Terry Schiavo -- surely he'd jump at the chance to grandstand on behalf of an apparent victim of the subversion of democracy. Right? Well, probably not. And many conservatives who've kept this woman's cause on their back burners, and who are now bringing her to the fore, are counting on this. It could be an out when the Bush's White House implodes, threatening to take the GOP with it.
For some time now Bush has been to movement conservatism what scarves were to Isadora Duncan's neck: a pretty trademark ironically become a deadly liability. Katrina, Abramoff, falsified pretexts for war and the subsequent Mess O' Potamia, Plame, the shrinkage of the middle class and the concomitantly growing gap between rich and poor, the skyrocketing deficit, and, well, Schiavo too, have all taken their toll on Bush and on those who've hitched themselves to him -- meaning just about everyone who calls him or herself a Republican. Since Grand Poobahs Will and Buckley have turned coats, there have been not a few half-hearted efforts to push away from Bush -- one of the most recent being the (demonstrably ludicrous) assertion that he's "Nae trrrooo Conserrvative" because of his spending and counterfeit Wilsonianism.
Finally, though, those with an eye to preserving what little chances there are to save what they can for the Party come election time have figgered out triangumalation. If Bush takes the bait, they'll just find another Neila; as, globally speaking, tinpot dictators as bad as (if not worse than) Saddam Hussein are a dime a dozen, likewise activists for democracy, not to mention those who camoflage themselves as such, are a penny. If he ignores her plight, Cornerites (and perhaps Daniel Pipes) can wash their hands of him, pointing out justifiably (if nevertheless perfidiously) that he failed his own principles.
"If I've lost The Corner, well... I've lost The Corner." But it's a start.
Too bad it won't save them.
If the Bush administration does not stand up for its friends in the region, it will soon learn it has none. Willingness to stand up for dissidents is more powerful than any message Karen Hughes can give.
Note not only the sudden obsession with Neila Charchour Hachicha, but the language itself, crafted to give the impression of a gauntlet thrown at the feet of the Bush administration. Now, George was willing to cut short his barbed-wire-stringin' and brush clearin' for Terry Schiavo -- surely he'd jump at the chance to grandstand on behalf of an apparent victim of the subversion of democracy. Right? Well, probably not. And many conservatives who've kept this woman's cause on their back burners, and who are now bringing her to the fore, are counting on this. It could be an out when the Bush's White House implodes, threatening to take the GOP with it.
For some time now Bush has been to movement conservatism what scarves were to Isadora Duncan's neck: a pretty trademark ironically become a deadly liability. Katrina, Abramoff, falsified pretexts for war and the subsequent Mess O' Potamia, Plame, the shrinkage of the middle class and the concomitantly growing gap between rich and poor, the skyrocketing deficit, and, well, Schiavo too, have all taken their toll on Bush and on those who've hitched themselves to him -- meaning just about everyone who calls him or herself a Republican. Since Grand Poobahs Will and Buckley have turned coats, there have been not a few half-hearted efforts to push away from Bush -- one of the most recent being the (demonstrably ludicrous) assertion that he's "Nae trrrooo Conserrvative" because of his spending and counterfeit Wilsonianism.
Finally, though, those with an eye to preserving what little chances there are to save what they can for the Party come election time have figgered out triangumalation. If Bush takes the bait, they'll just find another Neila; as, globally speaking, tinpot dictators as bad as (if not worse than) Saddam Hussein are a dime a dozen, likewise activists for democracy, not to mention those who camoflage themselves as such, are a penny. If he ignores her plight, Cornerites (and perhaps Daniel Pipes) can wash their hands of him, pointing out justifiably (if nevertheless perfidiously) that he failed his own principles.
"If I've lost The Corner, well... I've lost The Corner." But it's a start.
Too bad it won't save them.
The Hills Have Bette Davis Eyes
3.28.2006
Ore : 8:07 AM
Ore : 8:07 AM
[A Freedom Camp, non-manshake Sudden Fiction]
"Hi there. My name is Kate O'Beirne, and I'm going door to door on behalf of our media watchdog association, Christians Undermining Nasty Tinseltown Secularists. And who might you be?"
"Oh, uh Jack Gordon."
He had answered the door in a stained, crusty tank top, his thick-lidded eyes betraying that he had just been asleep. His hair is long, stringy and unkempt. The very model of a liberal -- possibly one of those "male feminists".
I press on regardless. "Right. Jack. Do you know who Scarlett Johansson is?"
"No, nuh-uh. Oh wait... Was she a great big fat person?"
"Well," I fall short of defending her as being well-proportioned; such a Jezebel deserves no quarter. "Her physical attributes aren't the point. Except when she makes them so. Here," I thrust out to him a flyer with a photocopy of her recent pornographic photo shoot for the Communist rag Vanity Fair, on the cover of which she had posed nude with militant homosexual Tom Ford and another woman. "This is the kind of anti-woman smut we're fighting against. You recognize her?"
"Yeah, I may've... No I read about her in the newspaper."
I am excited. Finally some headway with this lunk! I wave my hands excitedly, "Yeah, well, extra, extra -- this just in!!! Now it turns out this hussy, one of many women who're making the world worse, has been cast to co-star in "The Black Dahlia", a movie Hollywood really doesn't need to make -- it blames police first, not the mysterious murderer, and our male authority figures from a bygone era have suffered enough smears at the hands of Hollywood liberals. There's no need to continue dragging the LAPD's good name through the muck. So we've got this petition... Say, do you have a pen?"
He nods his assent. "Do you wanna come in while I look for it?"
"Thank you. Gosh, Mr. Gordon, what an odd-looking moth. You know what its back reminds me of?
"...And why, may I ask, do you want to know my dress size?"
"Hi there. My name is Kate O'Beirne, and I'm going door to door on behalf of our media watchdog association, Christians Undermining Nasty Tinseltown Secularists. And who might you be?"
"Oh, uh Jack Gordon."
He had answered the door in a stained, crusty tank top, his thick-lidded eyes betraying that he had just been asleep. His hair is long, stringy and unkempt. The very model of a liberal -- possibly one of those "male feminists".
I press on regardless. "Right. Jack. Do you know who Scarlett Johansson is?"
"No, nuh-uh. Oh wait... Was she a great big fat person?"
"Well," I fall short of defending her as being well-proportioned; such a Jezebel deserves no quarter. "Her physical attributes aren't the point. Except when she makes them so. Here," I thrust out to him a flyer with a photocopy of her recent pornographic photo shoot for the Communist rag Vanity Fair, on the cover of which she had posed nude with militant homosexual Tom Ford and another woman. "This is the kind of anti-woman smut we're fighting against. You recognize her?"
"Yeah, I may've... No I read about her in the newspaper."
I am excited. Finally some headway with this lunk! I wave my hands excitedly, "Yeah, well, extra, extra -- this just in!!! Now it turns out this hussy, one of many women who're making the world worse, has been cast to co-star in "The Black Dahlia", a movie Hollywood really doesn't need to make -- it blames police first, not the mysterious murderer, and our male authority figures from a bygone era have suffered enough smears at the hands of Hollywood liberals. There's no need to continue dragging the LAPD's good name through the muck. So we've got this petition... Say, do you have a pen?"
He nods his assent. "Do you wanna come in while I look for it?"
"Thank you. Gosh, Mr. Gordon, what an odd-looking moth. You know what its back reminds me of?
"...And why, may I ask, do you want to know my dress size?"
Watching Guys Catch Crabs
3.27.2006
Ore : 4:33 PM
Ore : 4:33 PM
After a nanosecond of hand-wringing, I've decided that, no matter how much it may make me squirm that men risk and sometimes give their lives to deliver a luxury food item to Americans who probably don't need to eat any more than they already do, there is nothing inherently wrong with the industry itself. This is nothing like slaughterhouses or pre-Chavez vinyards; dire economic circumstances force people into plenty of compromising positions (I will never get my stilettos stuck in my hoop earrings again), but working on a crab boat isn't one of them. This is more like diving for salvage or working as an assistant to Naomi Campbell: Here is a field, like some others, that offers not only the chance to score some fat coin, but also an opportunity to toughen oneself, to prove oneself -- to take risks and be a badass. And to want to seize such an opportunity is as natural a desire for many men (and not a few women) as sex or eating salty, fatty things.
Please don't take this as glibness -- a lead in to some sort of O'Rourke-ish, "they chose to do this; if they die, ha ha too bad." On the occasions when crew have suffered grievous injuries or even death, I've found it devastating; I've cried during a couple of episodes (madame, perhaps I need some mood stabilizers.)
But that leads me to my one quibble: the manipulativeness of the television program itself. I'm glad the show is out there inasmuch as it's deeply educational -- I for one had no clue that crab fishing in Alaska was so damn scary and dangerous. But I cannot shake the feeling that the show itself, or perhaps its presentation -- sly editing for emotional effect, the whole Real World-ness of it all -- is sickeningly exploitative.
In summation, I eat crab with a lot more thoughtfulness, but I don't feel bad about it. I do however feel bad about watching the show. Sort of.
Please don't take this as glibness -- a lead in to some sort of O'Rourke-ish, "they chose to do this; if they die, ha ha too bad." On the occasions when crew have suffered grievous injuries or even death, I've found it devastating; I've cried during a couple of episodes (madame, perhaps I need some mood stabilizers.)
But that leads me to my one quibble: the manipulativeness of the television program itself. I'm glad the show is out there inasmuch as it's deeply educational -- I for one had no clue that crab fishing in Alaska was so damn scary and dangerous. But I cannot shake the feeling that the show itself, or perhaps its presentation -- sly editing for emotional effect, the whole Real World-ness of it all -- is sickeningly exploitative.
In summation, I eat crab with a lot more thoughtfulness, but I don't feel bad about it. I do however feel bad about watching the show. Sort of.
Stop Me If You've Heard This One Before
Ore : 10:03 AM
"Our priority is our family. That needs to be America's priority by the way. America's families need to be the nation's priorities, all of us." *
"Protect Our Families...because we respect the family's role as a touchstone of stability and strength in an ever-changing world." *
Except when the parents immigrated illegally.
Except when the heads of household are gay or lesbian.
Except when one family member is in a persistant vegetative state.
Except when the father's a coal miner.
Except when another baby might sink an already struggling family, or a when the mother's been raped.
Except when a family member might have Down's Syndrome.
Except when they're poor and black and happen to be on the Gulf Coast when a hurricane comes in.
Except when a corporate crony wants to dump heavy metals and other carcinogenic pollutants into the groundwater.
Except when the family in question lives in Iraq.
Except when there's a war on:
Other than that... Yeah, they're all about families.
"Protect Our Families...because we respect the family's role as a touchstone of stability and strength in an ever-changing world." *
Except when the parents immigrated illegally.
Except when the heads of household are gay or lesbian.
Except when one family member is in a persistant vegetative state.
Except when the father's a coal miner.
Except when another baby might sink an already struggling family, or a when the mother's been raped.
Except when a family member might have Down's Syndrome.
Except when they're poor and black and happen to be on the Gulf Coast when a hurricane comes in.
Except when a corporate crony wants to dump heavy metals and other carcinogenic pollutants into the groundwater.
Except when the family in question lives in Iraq.
Except when there's a war on:
Other than that... Yeah, they're all about families.
Aimless Rant Based On Scant Anecdotal Evidence
3.26.2006
Ore : 12:25 PM
Ore : 12:25 PM
Try an experiment: go to a gay bar. Not the type with a dancefloor, but the type with just one pool table and little-to-no top-shelf vodka, and that turns a blind eye to the occasional indoor cigarette. Now flip through the jukebox. Chances are, you're going to find Hole's Live Through This.
Now, go to some straight dive -- any straight dive -- and do the same thing. The chances of finding that album here are about one in a million.
What a surprise. The point is, they were once a real powerful group. It's not a stretch to say they ruled the world. And when they broke up everyone blamed Yoko, but the fact is the group split itself apart, she just happened to be there.*
I've noticed something similar with the bizarre phenomenon that is Courtney Love. There are guys, no matter how thoughtful, liberal, feminist, and egalitarian, to whom you can mention those two words -- "Courtney" and "Love" -- and some of the vilest, most misogynistic effluent will spew out of their pie-holes.
These guys (and not a few girls) seem not to want to face facts. Well suck it up, buttercups: Though Kurt was a brilliant musician and a beautiful soul, he was never the less a fucked up junky. He was a sad, sordid mess, as much so as any Nick Drake or Elliot Smith. And he didn't need any help killing himself. Courtney or no Courtney, it was bound to happen.
Some, rather than offer an honest critique of her music, would indict her character because ofher rancid behavior upon his death -- the squatting in the Washington mud, rambling incoherently for the camera, her best Nancy Spungeon/Tammy Faye face spackled on and running in the tears and rain. As if any one of us has any business judging another's mode of mourning.
Courtney Love is a lot of things: an embarrassment, a junky, a skeeze, a talentless, watery knock-off of Sylvia Plath, but she is not a murderer. In point of fact, she's not all that horrible at all. I'd go so far as to say that, through all the posing and the dippy stunts, she's pretty fucking okay. Occasionally decent, even.
Yeah, she may have rode Kurt's coattails. That just proves she's got taste and dedication -- whose coattails was she going to ride? The fucking Gin Blossoms?
At any rate, she certainly didn't ride them to their grave.
Now, go to some straight dive -- any straight dive -- and do the same thing. The chances of finding that album here are about one in a million.
What a surprise. The point is, they were once a real powerful group. It's not a stretch to say they ruled the world. And when they broke up everyone blamed Yoko, but the fact is the group split itself apart, she just happened to be there.*
I've noticed something similar with the bizarre phenomenon that is Courtney Love. There are guys, no matter how thoughtful, liberal, feminist, and egalitarian, to whom you can mention those two words -- "Courtney" and "Love" -- and some of the vilest, most misogynistic effluent will spew out of their pie-holes.
These guys (and not a few girls) seem not to want to face facts. Well suck it up, buttercups: Though Kurt was a brilliant musician and a beautiful soul, he was never the less a fucked up junky. He was a sad, sordid mess, as much so as any Nick Drake or Elliot Smith. And he didn't need any help killing himself. Courtney or no Courtney, it was bound to happen.
Some, rather than offer an honest critique of her music, would indict her character because ofher rancid behavior upon his death -- the squatting in the Washington mud, rambling incoherently for the camera, her best Nancy Spungeon/Tammy Faye face spackled on and running in the tears and rain. As if any one of us has any business judging another's mode of mourning.
Courtney Love is a lot of things: an embarrassment, a junky, a skeeze, a talentless, watery knock-off of Sylvia Plath, but she is not a murderer. In point of fact, she's not all that horrible at all. I'd go so far as to say that, through all the posing and the dippy stunts, she's pretty fucking okay. Occasionally decent, even.
Yeah, she may have rode Kurt's coattails. That just proves she's got taste and dedication -- whose coattails was she going to ride? The fucking Gin Blossoms?
At any rate, she certainly didn't ride them to their grave.
Der Kulturkampf
3.25.2006
Ore : 2:21 PM
Ore : 2:21 PM
Precisely what on Cthulhu's doomed green Earth is the appeal of Gomez? Someone? Anyone?
I've run "The Blob" through my ILM ReMaster filter. In the new version, leathern teenager Steve McQueen and the other "kids" have a Negro friend name Junebug who is the first to die. Viva la 50s!
Sing for the terrorists/Sing for the president/Sing...
I am outraged at Cinemax. I was scrolling down the menu, and happened upon "The Witches of Eastwick". Ooh, goody, I thought: Cher, Michelle Pfeiffer, and Susan Sarandon all in one movie! What besides John Waters could be more soothing than this campy recent classic to the palate of a gay man in his late twenties?
I clicked on it, and was immediately treated to some goober's manscaped asscheeks bobbing over jiggling mounds of silicone.
Funny, I don't remember that part.
Turns out, it was "The Witches of Breastwick".
Goddammit.
Disappeared into thin air: British Sea Power, Louis XIV: we hardly knew ye. Sniff.
I think Nico was always stretching out those notes because she was so amazed when she finally hit one that she refused to let it go.
Chaucer doth blogge!
Margot & The Nuclear So And So's: Unfortunate band name notwithstanding, a perfectly lovely bunch. I'm a sucker for soaring, pretty singing. And their arrangements are none too shabby.
As an aside, I just love how I get crushes on guys when hearing their voices, without even having seen them.
Man, am I glad I never watched "The Village" in the theatre, nor even ordered it on Netflix. What a piece of hokey, watered-down Outer Limits crud. What's so hot about Shyamalan, anyway?
Merchant and Ivory really, really, really need to produce an adaptation of Villette, a perennial favorite since high school. The film should be directed by Ang Lee, and should star Rose Byrne as Lucy Snowe.
Something on the embarrassing yet much-maligned Courtney Love tomorrow.
* * *
I've run "The Blob" through my ILM ReMaster filter. In the new version, leathern teenager Steve McQueen and the other "kids" have a Negro friend name Junebug who is the first to die. Viva la 50s!
* * *
Sing for the terrorists/Sing for the president/Sing...
* * *
I am outraged at Cinemax. I was scrolling down the menu, and happened upon "The Witches of Eastwick". Ooh, goody, I thought: Cher, Michelle Pfeiffer, and Susan Sarandon all in one movie! What besides John Waters could be more soothing than this campy recent classic to the palate of a gay man in his late twenties?
I clicked on it, and was immediately treated to some goober's manscaped asscheeks bobbing over jiggling mounds of silicone.
Funny, I don't remember that part.
Turns out, it was "The Witches of Breastwick".
Goddammit.
* * *
Disappeared into thin air: British Sea Power, Louis XIV: we hardly knew ye. Sniff.
* * *
I think Nico was always stretching out those notes because she was so amazed when she finally hit one that she refused to let it go.
* * *
Chaucer doth blogge!
* * *
Margot & The Nuclear So And So's: Unfortunate band name notwithstanding, a perfectly lovely bunch. I'm a sucker for soaring, pretty singing. And their arrangements are none too shabby.
As an aside, I just love how I get crushes on guys when hearing their voices, without even having seen them.
* * *
Man, am I glad I never watched "The Village" in the theatre, nor even ordered it on Netflix. What a piece of hokey, watered-down Outer Limits crud. What's so hot about Shyamalan, anyway?
* * *
Merchant and Ivory really, really, really need to produce an adaptation of Villette, a perennial favorite since high school. The film should be directed by Ang Lee, and should star Rose Byrne as Lucy Snowe.
* * *
Something on the embarrassing yet much-maligned Courtney Love tomorrow.
Maybe I Can Do It Better: A Conclusion
3.24.2006
Ore : 10:10 AM
Ore : 10:10 AM
[Continued from Thursday. You know, I think I can do it better. What say you, Retardo?]
When I returned to the bathroom to fetch Dooley, I opened the door to a gagging stench. He had belatedly shit himself. I unfastened his pants to check his preferred style of basement furnishings.
Whew. Saved by the tightie-now-not-so-whities. Now I could only hope that their elastic would contain his shame long enough that nothing would spill out as I hefted him up and away. Miracle of miracles, rigor mortis had yet to set in.
Only two moments of panic punctuated his transport. The first was getting him to the truck. The longer it took to seat him on the passenger side, the greater the chance one of the neighbors could spot me.
I had his top half drapped over the seat, my arms around his waist, and his squishy, ample butt pressed up against my groin when I heard that tell-tale crunch of gravel. But the car passed, the driver oblivious.
I shoved him in without further incident, popped the glove compartment, and put a pair of sunglasses on his graying face.
The second moment came when I was pulled over by the highway patrol. Fortunately, it was Dwayne, an old family friend.
"Hey guy. Sorry to stop you like that, but a few of these came flying out of your pick-up. Thought you should know." He handed me a rippled, dirt-stained Jack Chick tract. "Never thought you'd be one for this crackpot stuff."
"Oops. Sorry about that. They must belong to my friend here."
Dwayne craned in a bit, his brow knotted behind reflective aviator sunglasses. "Say, your friend-"
"Bernie."
"Yeah, your friend Bernie there. He doesn't look so hot."
"Um, yeah, he had a few too many at the Saloon. Gotta get him home and in bed before his wife gets off work."
"Ah. Okay, you hurry along. Just be careful. Give a hoot and all that."
"Will do. Thanks!"
A few miles and switchbacks later, the tower loomed ahead. As a child, I had always imaged the London Tower to be taller, and with fewer of what seemed to be outbuildings. It was only after I had seen a documentary on television did I realize that what people of antiquity thought constituted a tower did not need to have anything in common with, say, Isengard from Tolkien's ouvre (which, incidentally, you may find in Adult Fiction, alpha by author, as often as you may find it in Juvenile Fiction -- it depends on your local library's system).
In truth, the Tower of London is a sort of castle - a lazy trapezoid of several towers, circumscribed and linked by mounts and a wall, and enclosing, among other monuments, the White Tower. It would have been easy to get lost in that full-scale reproduction, especially as it was under construction, but I knew my way because I'd been paying attention. If you're lucky, kids, your local library has useful and educational texts on the Tower in the low 940s. And remember, your best Internet connection is your librarian!
Knowledge of schematics notwithstanding, I could not be sure just which time period Dooley had reproduced. The four turrets of the white tower had blue decorative caps, meaning he was thinking post-Henry VIII, but some of the garish medieval colors reminded me that he may not have cared about anachronisms. From where I parked my car, by the Middle Tower (doubtless Mr. Dooley would have preferred my entering by the Traitor's Gate, but was of the essence), I noticed flying pennants, and the lack of cannons, and thought briefly about the reign of Henry III. I wonder why so many people romanticize this time; sure, the people had courtly manners, but I doubt they bathed often enough or wiped their tushes all that carefully...
I crossed the dry moat, passed the Byward Tower gate, turned left just before Wakefield Tower, and stood at the edge of his partially complete Tower Green. I gaped at the obvious expense -- centuries old trees just transplanted like it's nothing! -- and tsk-tsked at the extravagance: Why waste water on grass like this in Northern California? If you're going to use a piece of land just for beheading your enemies, a rocky stretch of poor clay is as good as anything, verisimilitude be damned.
I stood for many minutes, in full view of the Gentleman Gaoler's lodgings, transfixed by the freshly assembled gallows, imagining the racks and thumbscrews and all the other delights of the torturer Dooley must have tucked away elsewhere, until I realized I was staring at exactly what I needed: A tumbril on cracked wooden wheels stood nearby, waiting to receive the headsman's first victim. Entertaining other plans, I wheeled it down to my pick-up.
Lifting and maneuvering a payload of self-soiled godbotherer that weighs well over 200 lbs. is trying even if you are more massive than my meagre 5'9", 160 lbs. But I made it -- barely -- because I lifted smart -- with my legs -- and had spent many years training not only my mind, but my body (for more on weight-training, why not look in the 796s?)
Cutting back across the greensward, I dragged the two-wheeled wagon bearing its hideous cargo to the entrance of the White Tower.
It was better than I'd hoped. There was an uncompleted spiral staircase where his contractors had taken some liberties, using modern concrete and local slate. Dooley's bulk squeezed awkwardly into a single stair -- I had to work fast, as he had finally begun to stiffen. For hours after I stuffed him in, I labored against the clock, mixing concrete and laying the stones all by myself.
Trembling, dizzy, and exhausted, I finished just before three in the morning.
For many weeks after, life went on as usual. Winter bled into spring, the larkspur exploded into bloom, and twice I had to break up middle-schoolers coupling in the children's section.
One fine day, as the Stars and Stripes fluttered beside my outdoor books-for-sale-display and the honeybees hummed among the clover, a large, black SUV with County markings parked just outside the entrance.
A statuesque red-head of a certain age emerged and loped over to the circulation desk, and leaned towards me, calm and friendly. She said her name was Kate, and that she had a few questions for me regarding the disappearance of one Mr. Dooley. She flashed a badge. I offered to show her everything. I had nothing to hide.
As I guided her back to the boiler room, a thought struck me. Her face -- those eyes, those fabulous cheekbones, those sensual-yet-no-nonsense lips -- was so familiar. Perhaps commenting on that familiarity might cement a rapport, and knock her off her guard.
I opened the broad, poster-laden boiler-room door, and turned to her with my most guileless smile. "Hey, has anyone ever told you you look like that slutty girl from 'China Beach'?"
Chapter II
When I returned to the bathroom to fetch Dooley, I opened the door to a gagging stench. He had belatedly shit himself. I unfastened his pants to check his preferred style of basement furnishings.
Whew. Saved by the tightie-now-not-so-whities. Now I could only hope that their elastic would contain his shame long enough that nothing would spill out as I hefted him up and away. Miracle of miracles, rigor mortis had yet to set in.
Only two moments of panic punctuated his transport. The first was getting him to the truck. The longer it took to seat him on the passenger side, the greater the chance one of the neighbors could spot me.
I had his top half drapped over the seat, my arms around his waist, and his squishy, ample butt pressed up against my groin when I heard that tell-tale crunch of gravel. But the car passed, the driver oblivious.
I shoved him in without further incident, popped the glove compartment, and put a pair of sunglasses on his graying face.
The second moment came when I was pulled over by the highway patrol. Fortunately, it was Dwayne, an old family friend.
"Hey guy. Sorry to stop you like that, but a few of these came flying out of your pick-up. Thought you should know." He handed me a rippled, dirt-stained Jack Chick tract. "Never thought you'd be one for this crackpot stuff."
"Oops. Sorry about that. They must belong to my friend here."
Dwayne craned in a bit, his brow knotted behind reflective aviator sunglasses. "Say, your friend-"
"Bernie."
"Yeah, your friend Bernie there. He doesn't look so hot."
"Um, yeah, he had a few too many at the Saloon. Gotta get him home and in bed before his wife gets off work."
"Ah. Okay, you hurry along. Just be careful. Give a hoot and all that."
"Will do. Thanks!"
A few miles and switchbacks later, the tower loomed ahead. As a child, I had always imaged the London Tower to be taller, and with fewer of what seemed to be outbuildings. It was only after I had seen a documentary on television did I realize that what people of antiquity thought constituted a tower did not need to have anything in common with, say, Isengard from Tolkien's ouvre (which, incidentally, you may find in Adult Fiction, alpha by author, as often as you may find it in Juvenile Fiction -- it depends on your local library's system).
In truth, the Tower of London is a sort of castle - a lazy trapezoid of several towers, circumscribed and linked by mounts and a wall, and enclosing, among other monuments, the White Tower. It would have been easy to get lost in that full-scale reproduction, especially as it was under construction, but I knew my way because I'd been paying attention. If you're lucky, kids, your local library has useful and educational texts on the Tower in the low 940s. And remember, your best Internet connection is your librarian!
Knowledge of schematics notwithstanding, I could not be sure just which time period Dooley had reproduced. The four turrets of the white tower had blue decorative caps, meaning he was thinking post-Henry VIII, but some of the garish medieval colors reminded me that he may not have cared about anachronisms. From where I parked my car, by the Middle Tower (doubtless Mr. Dooley would have preferred my entering by the Traitor's Gate, but was of the essence), I noticed flying pennants, and the lack of cannons, and thought briefly about the reign of Henry III. I wonder why so many people romanticize this time; sure, the people had courtly manners, but I doubt they bathed often enough or wiped their tushes all that carefully...
I crossed the dry moat, passed the Byward Tower gate, turned left just before Wakefield Tower, and stood at the edge of his partially complete Tower Green. I gaped at the obvious expense -- centuries old trees just transplanted like it's nothing! -- and tsk-tsked at the extravagance: Why waste water on grass like this in Northern California? If you're going to use a piece of land just for beheading your enemies, a rocky stretch of poor clay is as good as anything, verisimilitude be damned.
I stood for many minutes, in full view of the Gentleman Gaoler's lodgings, transfixed by the freshly assembled gallows, imagining the racks and thumbscrews and all the other delights of the torturer Dooley must have tucked away elsewhere, until I realized I was staring at exactly what I needed: A tumbril on cracked wooden wheels stood nearby, waiting to receive the headsman's first victim. Entertaining other plans, I wheeled it down to my pick-up.
Lifting and maneuvering a payload of self-soiled godbotherer that weighs well over 200 lbs. is trying even if you are more massive than my meagre 5'9", 160 lbs. But I made it -- barely -- because I lifted smart -- with my legs -- and had spent many years training not only my mind, but my body (for more on weight-training, why not look in the 796s?)
Cutting back across the greensward, I dragged the two-wheeled wagon bearing its hideous cargo to the entrance of the White Tower.
It was better than I'd hoped. There was an uncompleted spiral staircase where his contractors had taken some liberties, using modern concrete and local slate. Dooley's bulk squeezed awkwardly into a single stair -- I had to work fast, as he had finally begun to stiffen. For hours after I stuffed him in, I labored against the clock, mixing concrete and laying the stones all by myself.
Trembling, dizzy, and exhausted, I finished just before three in the morning.
* * *
For many weeks after, life went on as usual. Winter bled into spring, the larkspur exploded into bloom, and twice I had to break up middle-schoolers coupling in the children's section.
One fine day, as the Stars and Stripes fluttered beside my outdoor books-for-sale-display and the honeybees hummed among the clover, a large, black SUV with County markings parked just outside the entrance.
A statuesque red-head of a certain age emerged and loped over to the circulation desk, and leaned towards me, calm and friendly. She said her name was Kate, and that she had a few questions for me regarding the disappearance of one Mr. Dooley. She flashed a badge. I offered to show her everything. I had nothing to hide.
As I guided her back to the boiler room, a thought struck me. Her face -- those eyes, those fabulous cheekbones, those sensual-yet-no-nonsense lips -- was so familiar. Perhaps commenting on that familiarity might cement a rapport, and knock her off her guard.
I opened the broad, poster-laden boiler-room door, and turned to her with my most guileless smile. "Hey, has anyone ever told you you look like that slutty girl from 'China Beach'?"
Is It True? Can Just Anyone Do It Better?
3.23.2006
Ore : 7:54 AM
Ore : 7:54 AM
[We've cringed as Jeff has tried. We've seen Giblets soar. And we know Retardo can. So I thought I'd give it a shot. Poor showing, but this is just off the top of my head -- just about two hour's work. Can you write better fiction than Jeff's?]
I dropped a juvenile mouse into my baby girl's terrarium. That's Lupe, a 12"-long Rosy Boa. I keep her on the back shelf. She's a hit with the school kids, and has done a great job at driving up circulation. I'm often tempted to mark her down as a volunteer!
At the rodent's final squeek, as Lupe's jaw distended and covered its slightly wet hide, I turned to process the day's periodicals. I was marking their receipt in the file when he came in. I had just opened, and my usual Internet-friendly patrons would not arrive for at least another half hour.
But there he was. Hey, with our budget, I'll take all the foot traffic I can get. "Hi there!" I said, as I stuck a date tag on this month's Interview magazine. "What can I do for you?"
He was a tall, chubby man, with a ginger goatee matching his close-cropped, thinning hair. He wore pleated khakis and a raglan sporting a large "W". "Yeah, hi. Listen, I was hoping you could find a place for these."
He hoisted a bundle of pamphlets. Tracts, more accurately, consisting of a few pages of poorly drawn cartoons and Bible verses. The comics seemed to warn children off of Halloween and Islam. I knew just the place for them.
"I can process them, then, and put them in the Christian literature section where they can be checked out."
"Oh, no, see, they're for people to have. For free. Like the stuff you got over there." He gestured with a fat, freckled hand at the top of the short bookshelves by Juvenile Non-fiction -- one of the few free surfaces I can spare for local newsletters, health alerts, scholarship applications, and citizenship pamphlets. I have almost no space there, and am jealous of every square inch. Internally, I whimper a little.
"Perhaps we can find them their own vertical file, and with a sign telling patrons to 'take one', over there in the 200 - 290s, where we keep our Bibles and other Christian literature."
He shook his head with some vehemence, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. "No, no, no!" What I had earlier mistaken as a naturally ruddy complexion I now realized was a manifestation of a continually seething, low-grade anger. I began to get a little nervous. "They should be right there," he continued, jabbing his finger in the same direction.
I was on the verge of arguing with him, but I stayed cool. "You wouldn't even want to take a look? We've got these wonderful vertical cutaway files," I proffered one of the particleboard lovelies, "and I can make a neat little sign for it on the computer and put it right over there," I pointed. And I stretched: "Wouldn't it be better to place it with all the serious Christian stuff that people will see?"
He pursed his lips, furrowed his brow, and followed me to the shelves to the right of the encyclopedias and philosophy. I began to explain my suggestion when he, scanning the spines, widened his eyes a bit and again shook his head. "No, no, this won't do. Won't do at all."
"Sorry?"
"Look at this," he seemed almost to whine, "you got this all wrong. This Hindu-Buddha-Moozlim crap don't belong here. See? It's fiction. You need to find somewhere else for it. It should not be put here this close to the word of Jesus."
"Well if you notice, sir, the materials on other religions is separated from the Christian literature. In fact, there's some controversy about that because Christianity takes up one whole section of the Dewey Decimal system, while every other religion is relegated-" I stopped short, noticing the weird glint in his eye. This was not the route to take.
Try another: "Sir, I'd love to accomodate everyone who comes in here -- the library's for everyone! -- including you, but there are others in this community-"
"Son, don't you know who I am?"
"Um. No, actually." And I bristled a bit at the "Son." I mean, the guy can't be more than seven or eight years older than I.
"My name is Ezekial Ephraim Jebidiah Genesis Dooley."
Holy frijoles! It's the multi-millionare dollar nut! The one building his castle, an exact replica, I'm told, of the Tower of London, not 20 miles down the county road.
As if reading my thoughts, he said "Yeah, that's my castle out there. And come Dominion, when this finally becomes a nation under our one true god, Jesus Christ... Well, let's just say I've got my own Tower Hill."
Needless to say, I kept my peace. Money is money, even if it does come from weirdos, and, I thought, if I can just stall him, find something with which to placate him...
"And as far as you're concerned," and at this, he leaned in and jabbed my chest, "I am the community." We walked back towards the front desk, nearer the computers and the patrons' table.
He hiked up his pants a bit, a self-satisfied half-smirk lighting his face, and placed his hands on his hips. "No, I can see we're gonna need to make some changes 'round here."
Oh, brother, I thought, Wait til I bring this one up with the trustees.
"Yup, some big changes. But first things first: let's get that other stuff off the shelves. It's about time we had us a good ole book-bur-"
Suddenly he was frozen. The next words came out as a horrified whisper: "Behind you!"
I turned around, only to see Lupe bobbing her head against the glass. The little mouse seemed to be going down quite nicely.
"Oh, that's okay-" I began to reassure him.
"The serpent... Those red eyes... A servant of the Deceiver!"
I waved my hands. "Oh, no, no, it's just my pet snake. Her name is Guadalupe. She comes from Baja California. She is mucho friendly!"
He began stumbling backwards, towards one of the patron chairs. "Help me Jesus! Get thee behind me!"
"No, wait! Look out!"
He was gasping, flush and trembling with fright, still moving and gibbering. "Ack -- SATAN!!!"
With that, he tripped against the chair, folded, and fell down against the table.
I rushed to his side. His eyes were open. He wasn't breathing. I felt around to the back of his head, and though there was no blood, his skull there seemed to give and fold in a bit.
I couldn't understand. I had heard no sickening crack or that-certain-thud-and-you-just-know, like in those hardboiled novels. He had just fallen with the expected crash, albeit at a scary angle, and now he was dead.
No, this wouldn't do. A multi-millionare dying in a freak accident in my poor little library? The way we're struggling, we don't need that kind of publicity! We'd be shut down for sure. And, almost as important, I'd lose my job.
Who would help the children score their X-Box "cheat-codes" off the Internet?
Wouldn't do at all!
I grabbed his Nike-clad feet, and hauled his outsized carcass around the front desk and towards the back. There was no smell of blood, or of death. There was only Old Spice, the scent of clothes gone sour in the wash before hitting the dryer, and that slightest hint -- sweet and a little musky -- of dried semen. I accelerated my pace.
With four more hours left on this shift, I did the best I could. I propped him up against the toilet, and went back to work.
The next few hours went quietly and smoothly. At no point did I even begin to panic. For a while I even forgot about the corpse in the Library bathroom.
Half an hour from closing, Molly, age 9, came in with her two older sisters to play on the computer. "Just Grandma and Me" is her favorite. First, of course, she asked to pet Lupe.
"Not now, Molly. Sorry, but she's resting after her meal."
"Okay. Oh, can I use your bathroom?"
I almost said yes. "Sorry, sweetheart, but not until the exterminator has come. We've got spiders."
"EEW!" She made a horrified little girl moue, and ran to her sisters' sides.
Not much later, with a tiny sigh of relief, I went to the window and turned out the "CLOSED" sign.
It was suppertime, and I was famished. But first things first: I had a body to dispose of.
To Be Continued...
Chapter I
I dropped a juvenile mouse into my baby girl's terrarium. That's Lupe, a 12"-long Rosy Boa. I keep her on the back shelf. She's a hit with the school kids, and has done a great job at driving up circulation. I'm often tempted to mark her down as a volunteer!
At the rodent's final squeek, as Lupe's jaw distended and covered its slightly wet hide, I turned to process the day's periodicals. I was marking their receipt in the file when he came in. I had just opened, and my usual Internet-friendly patrons would not arrive for at least another half hour.
But there he was. Hey, with our budget, I'll take all the foot traffic I can get. "Hi there!" I said, as I stuck a date tag on this month's Interview magazine. "What can I do for you?"
He was a tall, chubby man, with a ginger goatee matching his close-cropped, thinning hair. He wore pleated khakis and a raglan sporting a large "W". "Yeah, hi. Listen, I was hoping you could find a place for these."
He hoisted a bundle of pamphlets. Tracts, more accurately, consisting of a few pages of poorly drawn cartoons and Bible verses. The comics seemed to warn children off of Halloween and Islam. I knew just the place for them.
"I can process them, then, and put them in the Christian literature section where they can be checked out."
"Oh, no, see, they're for people to have. For free. Like the stuff you got over there." He gestured with a fat, freckled hand at the top of the short bookshelves by Juvenile Non-fiction -- one of the few free surfaces I can spare for local newsletters, health alerts, scholarship applications, and citizenship pamphlets. I have almost no space there, and am jealous of every square inch. Internally, I whimper a little.
"Perhaps we can find them their own vertical file, and with a sign telling patrons to 'take one', over there in the 200 - 290s, where we keep our Bibles and other Christian literature."
He shook his head with some vehemence, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. "No, no, no!" What I had earlier mistaken as a naturally ruddy complexion I now realized was a manifestation of a continually seething, low-grade anger. I began to get a little nervous. "They should be right there," he continued, jabbing his finger in the same direction.
I was on the verge of arguing with him, but I stayed cool. "You wouldn't even want to take a look? We've got these wonderful vertical cutaway files," I proffered one of the particleboard lovelies, "and I can make a neat little sign for it on the computer and put it right over there," I pointed. And I stretched: "Wouldn't it be better to place it with all the serious Christian stuff that people will see?"
He pursed his lips, furrowed his brow, and followed me to the shelves to the right of the encyclopedias and philosophy. I began to explain my suggestion when he, scanning the spines, widened his eyes a bit and again shook his head. "No, no, this won't do. Won't do at all."
"Sorry?"
"Look at this," he seemed almost to whine, "you got this all wrong. This Hindu-Buddha-Moozlim crap don't belong here. See? It's fiction. You need to find somewhere else for it. It should not be put here this close to the word of Jesus."
"Well if you notice, sir, the materials on other religions is separated from the Christian literature. In fact, there's some controversy about that because Christianity takes up one whole section of the Dewey Decimal system, while every other religion is relegated-" I stopped short, noticing the weird glint in his eye. This was not the route to take.
Try another: "Sir, I'd love to accomodate everyone who comes in here -- the library's for everyone! -- including you, but there are others in this community-"
"Son, don't you know who I am?"
"Um. No, actually." And I bristled a bit at the "Son." I mean, the guy can't be more than seven or eight years older than I.
"My name is Ezekial Ephraim Jebidiah Genesis Dooley."
Holy frijoles! It's the multi-millionare dollar nut! The one building his castle, an exact replica, I'm told, of the Tower of London, not 20 miles down the county road.
As if reading my thoughts, he said "Yeah, that's my castle out there. And come Dominion, when this finally becomes a nation under our one true god, Jesus Christ... Well, let's just say I've got my own Tower Hill."
Needless to say, I kept my peace. Money is money, even if it does come from weirdos, and, I thought, if I can just stall him, find something with which to placate him...
"And as far as you're concerned," and at this, he leaned in and jabbed my chest, "I am the community." We walked back towards the front desk, nearer the computers and the patrons' table.
He hiked up his pants a bit, a self-satisfied half-smirk lighting his face, and placed his hands on his hips. "No, I can see we're gonna need to make some changes 'round here."
Oh, brother, I thought, Wait til I bring this one up with the trustees.
"Yup, some big changes. But first things first: let's get that other stuff off the shelves. It's about time we had us a good ole book-bur-"
Suddenly he was frozen. The next words came out as a horrified whisper: "Behind you!"
I turned around, only to see Lupe bobbing her head against the glass. The little mouse seemed to be going down quite nicely.
"Oh, that's okay-" I began to reassure him.
"The serpent... Those red eyes... A servant of the Deceiver!"
I waved my hands. "Oh, no, no, it's just my pet snake. Her name is Guadalupe. She comes from Baja California. She is mucho friendly!"
He began stumbling backwards, towards one of the patron chairs. "Help me Jesus! Get thee behind me!"
"No, wait! Look out!"
He was gasping, flush and trembling with fright, still moving and gibbering. "Ack -- SATAN!!!"
With that, he tripped against the chair, folded, and fell down against the table.
I rushed to his side. His eyes were open. He wasn't breathing. I felt around to the back of his head, and though there was no blood, his skull there seemed to give and fold in a bit.
I couldn't understand. I had heard no sickening crack or that-certain-thud-and-you-just-know, like in those hardboiled novels. He had just fallen with the expected crash, albeit at a scary angle, and now he was dead.
No, this wouldn't do. A multi-millionare dying in a freak accident in my poor little library? The way we're struggling, we don't need that kind of publicity! We'd be shut down for sure. And, almost as important, I'd lose my job.
Who would help the children score their X-Box "cheat-codes" off the Internet?
Wouldn't do at all!
I grabbed his Nike-clad feet, and hauled his outsized carcass around the front desk and towards the back. There was no smell of blood, or of death. There was only Old Spice, the scent of clothes gone sour in the wash before hitting the dryer, and that slightest hint -- sweet and a little musky -- of dried semen. I accelerated my pace.
With four more hours left on this shift, I did the best I could. I propped him up against the toilet, and went back to work.
The next few hours went quietly and smoothly. At no point did I even begin to panic. For a while I even forgot about the corpse in the Library bathroom.
Half an hour from closing, Molly, age 9, came in with her two older sisters to play on the computer. "Just Grandma and Me" is her favorite. First, of course, she asked to pet Lupe.
"Not now, Molly. Sorry, but she's resting after her meal."
"Okay. Oh, can I use your bathroom?"
I almost said yes. "Sorry, sweetheart, but not until the exterminator has come. We've got spiders."
"EEW!" She made a horrified little girl moue, and ran to her sisters' sides.
Not much later, with a tiny sigh of relief, I went to the window and turned out the "CLOSED" sign.
It was suppertime, and I was famished. But first things first: I had a body to dispose of.
To Be Continued...
Ye Olde Grabbe Bage, Too
3.22.2006
Ore : 5:52 PM
Ore : 5:52 PM
I'm sure AFA has a similar page decrying Olympians at Torino who indulged in drunken brawls.
Oh, wait, no they don't: getting up in drag is far more immoral than breaking teeth.
Why not dress your bridesmaids in pouffy acid-wash denim?
The recent massive hullaballoo over the 2-3% of people who "misused" their dinky couple-of-thousand-dollar FEMA debit cards is tragically hilarious. I mean, isn't this just a variation on the old Republican "Ooh our country is being bankrupted by scurrilous inner-city welfare queens driving around in Cadillacs" approach to domestic policy?
"Don't mess with Texas"? California is wealthier, more powerful, more populous and more important, and Californians are prettier, healthier and smarter besides. So yes. I will mess with Texas with impunity.
Oh yeah, I went there. FUCK YOU, TEXAS!!!
Saw the weirdest thing outside: a bumblebee freshly impaled on a spike in the barbed-wire fence, as though it couldn't escape the wind that threw it there. Way creepy. Couldn't have been a shrike; we don't have those.
Oh, wait, no they don't: getting up in drag is far more immoral than breaking teeth.
***
Why not dress your bridesmaids in pouffy acid-wash denim?
***
The recent massive hullaballoo over the 2-3% of people who "misused" their dinky couple-of-thousand-dollar FEMA debit cards is tragically hilarious. I mean, isn't this just a variation on the old Republican "Ooh our country is being bankrupted by scurrilous inner-city welfare queens driving around in Cadillacs" approach to domestic policy?
There's really no way to put this delicately: if you believe that this is the most important story to come out of the Katrina/post-Katrina narrative, you are a failure as a human being -- a shitty American who is abusing your sacred franchise as a citizen.
***
"Don't mess with Texas"? California is wealthier, more powerful, more populous and more important, and Californians are prettier, healthier and smarter besides. So yes. I will mess with Texas with impunity.
Oh yeah, I went there. FUCK YOU, TEXAS!!!
***
Saw the weirdest thing outside: a bumblebee freshly impaled on a spike in the barbed-wire fence, as though it couldn't escape the wind that threw it there. Way creepy. Couldn't have been a shrike; we don't have those.
A Little Grab Bage
3.21.2006
Ore : 8:36 AM
Ore : 8:36 AM
I think Atrios is on to something. Many otherwise non-Wingnutien publications must publish gibberingly, licking-spots-on-the-wall stupid columnists just to drive normal Americans insanely indignant, thereby increasing circulation. It's the only explanation. How else to explain Howard Kurtz?
Gavin's gonna love this little bit. A part of the article Jeff Goldstein attempted to fisk (although on this specific part Jeffy studiously avoids commenting -- he merely implies, in his typically verbose form of non-reasoning, that it is wrong):
Another time he said, [2] "Some say that if you’re Muslim you can’t be free."
And from a very recent installment by our favorite failed academic-cum-screamingly successful hausfrau:
Hitchens notes, often from people who claim that li’l old liberal dissent can’t have any effect on the war (this is the part of the argument where we’re told that al-Qaeda doesn’t read our papers or follow our press, which of course doesn’t speak highly of them as an enemy -- but hey, what do you expect from dumb brown people?)
You know, because that's exactly what white Liberal elitists meant when any of them said that they don't see how Americans engaging in the democratic process and using their First Amendment rights could give aid and comfort to the enemy.
In other words, Jeff isn't dumb. He's certifiable (but we may need an online diagnosis from Dr. Sanity to be sure).
See what happens when happens when the Right attempts to jump ship too quickly from the SS Southern Stragegy? Eugene "Oops, Maybe I Shouldn't Have Been So Quick To Support Torture" Volokh gets ropeburn.
***
Gavin's gonna love this little bit. A part of the article Jeff Goldstein attempted to fisk (although on this specific part Jeffy studiously avoids commenting -- he merely implies, in his typically verbose form of non-reasoning, that it is wrong):
Another time he said, [2] "Some say that if you’re Muslim you can’t be free."
And from a very recent installment by our favorite failed academic-cum-screamingly successful hausfrau:
Hitchens notes, often from people who claim that li’l old liberal dissent can’t have any effect on the war (this is the part of the argument where we’re told that al-Qaeda doesn’t read our papers or follow our press, which of course doesn’t speak highly of them as an enemy -- but hey, what do you expect from dumb brown people?)
You know, because that's exactly what white Liberal elitists meant when any of them said that they don't see how Americans engaging in the democratic process and using their First Amendment rights could give aid and comfort to the enemy.
In other words, Jeff isn't dumb. He's certifiable (but we may need an online diagnosis from Dr. Sanity to be sure).
***
See what happens when happens when the Right attempts to jump ship too quickly from the SS Southern Stragegy? Eugene "Oops, Maybe I Shouldn't Have Been So Quick To Support Torture" Volokh gets ropeburn.
Garbage Raid!!!
3.20.2006
Ore : 10:07 PM
Ore : 10:07 PM
Like a raccoon, a raccoon in an orange jumpsuit, I have stolen into s.z.'s dumpster; an escaped internee, on the run from the fuzz and chasing a one-armed man, will take leftovers where he can get them. Here's the nugget I pulled out:
So here is what I propose: Just like when somebody stole something in Kindergarten, we’ll shut off the lights and give it thirty seconds. Whoever took the dignity and nobility out of Feminism can put it back. That way when we turn the lights back on, everyone can focus on the original goals of Feminism and perhaps we can be productive again. Maybe, with time, men can even be reprogrammed to open doors again without fear of retaliation, and those few brave, chivalrous souls who never gave it up can come out of hiding. Then I, too, can wear the neat shirts that say, "This is what a feminist (a strong woman, not a left-wing propagandist) looks like," (Quite frankly, I’m sick of all the angry women bogarting the cool, indignant clothing).
And this is what it looked like when my digestive system had finished excreting it in the middle of the infotainment superhighway:
So here is what I porpoise: eekEEEEEEKclickclickeeekEEEK!. Just like when somebody stole something in Kindergarten, we’ll shut off the lights and give it thirty seconds. When we turn it back on, everyone will see I've stuck all the crayons in my vag. Whosoever took the Dignity and Nobility out of Feminism can put them back in, because True Feminism enjoys Double Penetration. Maybe, with time, men can even be reprogrammed to open doors again without fear of retaliation, although we must continue to make them fear our EMP blasters, lest they turn on us, and we become the slaves of our own android creations. Then I, too, can wear the neat shirts that say, "This is what a robot-whipping harpy looks like," (Quite frankenfurterly, I’m sick of Humphrey Bogart angering the cool Ingrid Bergman).
In other words, it wasn't tasty -- I could barely pass it! And that is why Townhall, mainly for hiring writers like this Noel Stanger, deserved this so very, very much:
So here is what I propose: Just like when somebody stole something in Kindergarten, we’ll shut off the lights and give it thirty seconds. Whoever took the dignity and nobility out of Feminism can put it back. That way when we turn the lights back on, everyone can focus on the original goals of Feminism and perhaps we can be productive again. Maybe, with time, men can even be reprogrammed to open doors again without fear of retaliation, and those few brave, chivalrous souls who never gave it up can come out of hiding. Then I, too, can wear the neat shirts that say, "This is what a feminist (a strong woman, not a left-wing propagandist) looks like," (Quite frankly, I’m sick of all the angry women bogarting the cool, indignant clothing).
And this is what it looked like when my digestive system had finished excreting it in the middle of the infotainment superhighway:
So here is what I porpoise: eekEEEEEEKclickclickeeekEEEK!. Just like when somebody stole something in Kindergarten, we’ll shut off the lights and give it thirty seconds. When we turn it back on, everyone will see I've stuck all the crayons in my vag. Whosoever took the Dignity and Nobility out of Feminism can put them back in, because True Feminism enjoys Double Penetration. Maybe, with time, men can even be reprogrammed to open doors again without fear of retaliation, although we must continue to make them fear our EMP blasters, lest they turn on us, and we become the slaves of our own android creations. Then I, too, can wear the neat shirts that say, "This is what a robot-whipping harpy looks like," (Quite frankenfurterly, I’m sick of Humphrey Bogart angering the cool Ingrid Bergman).
In other words, it wasn't tasty -- I could barely pass it! And that is why Townhall, mainly for hiring writers like this Noel Stanger, deserved this so very, very much:
Theocrat, Heal Thyself
Ore : 8:02 AM
If you're unfamiliar with Jon Carroll, he's sort of the local, Northern California version of James Wolcott, albeit more a bookish grammar maven than a waggish arts and culture commentator -- not that he isn't some of that, as well. And for those of you who are familiar with him: yes, I too tend to avoid his cat columns.
This one, however, was worth reading:
"Where's Daddy?"
"He's out picketing a funeral of a gay veteran."
"Will he be home in time for the flute recital?"
"Your father is very busy, dear."
Amen, bitchez.
This one, however, was worth reading:
"Where's Daddy?"
"He's out picketing a funeral of a gay veteran."
"Will he be home in time for the flute recital?"
"Your father is very busy, dear."
Amen, bitchez.
Happy Three-Year Anniversary
3.19.2006
Ore : 7:31 AM
Ore : 7:31 AM
Okay, so I'm glad you all got so much enjoyment out of our St. Patty's Day corned beef post. Time to put the pants back on (the serious pants, that is).
Several times since the evidence that the Bush junta lied to get us into this mess has piled up so high it is undeniable to the most slavish Kool-Ade drinker, a fall-back position has been dismissiveness -- the fact that they lied isn't that big of a deal, we're essentially told.
I submit that it is, in large part because of this guy (of whom I am totally in awe, btw) and thousands like him:
Watching "CSI" or "Law and Order" on TV with his wife, Sherry, he often has trouble following the plot. He has problems recalling the birthdates of their three boys — Matthew, 4, Nicholas, 3, and 13-week-old Liam. He knows the route to his desk job at Hunter Army Airfield in nearby Savannah, but needs help keeping track of appointments.
Sometimes he'll walk into a room and forget what he's doing there. Other times, he'll stop talking in mid-sentence and grasp for the word.
I've said this before, among other times when watching my grandmother deteriorate due to Alzheimer's: if I ever get to this point, shoot me and shoot to kill. I understand why he sticks around, and that the future may yet hold the possibility of a more complete recovery, but damn.
I don't think I could imagine a more horrifying way to live.
Several times since the evidence that the Bush junta lied to get us into this mess has piled up so high it is undeniable to the most slavish Kool-Ade drinker, a fall-back position has been dismissiveness -- the fact that they lied isn't that big of a deal, we're essentially told.
I submit that it is, in large part because of this guy (of whom I am totally in awe, btw) and thousands like him:
Watching "CSI" or "Law and Order" on TV with his wife, Sherry, he often has trouble following the plot. He has problems recalling the birthdates of their three boys — Matthew, 4, Nicholas, 3, and 13-week-old Liam. He knows the route to his desk job at Hunter Army Airfield in nearby Savannah, but needs help keeping track of appointments.
Sometimes he'll walk into a room and forget what he's doing there. Other times, he'll stop talking in mid-sentence and grasp for the word.
I've said this before, among other times when watching my grandmother deteriorate due to Alzheimer's: if I ever get to this point, shoot me and shoot to kill. I understand why he sticks around, and that the future may yet hold the possibility of a more complete recovery, but damn.
I don't think I could imagine a more horrifying way to live.
I Wanna Be The Girl With The Most Cake
3.17.2006
Ore : 10:19 AM
Ore : 10:19 AM
And a piece for you (like how I did that? Still SFW -- barely):
And a piece for you (hope you're detecting a pattern here -- a partial shamrock pattern:
And a piece for Madame (ya ginger bastard...):
And a piece for me!
Ahhh... Alex!
I'm tired. Taking a nap today, bitchez.
I Take Back Everything Bad I've Said
3.16.2006
Ore : 7:37 AM
Ore : 7:37 AM
At least, about Jessica Simpson. If I've said anything. Frankly I don't recall saying that much about her at all.
I'm not of course going to extoll her praises til the cows come home, either. It's not like she dashed into a house collapsed by an earthquake to rescue a basket full of kittens, or formulated a workable Unified Field Theory.
She did, from the perspective of a modern Republican, something much, much more heinous: she refused to be a fundraising and public-relations tool for the party of Mammon, Satan, and Jesse Helms:
"It just feels wrong," one Simpson insider told Reuters on Wednesday, adding that the actress keeps her political views private. "She would love to meet the president and talk about Operation Smile ... but she can't do it at a fund-raiser for the Republican Party."
One wishes certain columnists *armstrongwilliamscough-cough* and the commanders of U.S. servicemen used as campaign props had been as circumspect.
You know what? Even though I've mostly held my tongue (out of disinterest as much as anything), I have until now counted myself firmly in the Let's Mock The Bimbo Who Works Her Ass More Often Than Her Single Rickety Ganglion Camp.
Yeah, her music is basically a 1:20 scale injection-molded plastic replica of the dreck Ann Margret used to put out. But I find I'm definitely developing a modicum of respect for the woman herself. And if that puts me on the wrong side of the smarmy and vaguely threatening (in this article) Carl Forti, and der gefälschte Cowboy hisself, so much the better.
P.S. If anyone happens to check out Chaz Johnson's teeming meth lab or Freepi Bedlam to see what they're saying about her, report back here in the comments, and we can all marvel anew at her death-defying courage. I don't have the stomach for it myself. Besides, it's going to be a long day.
UPDATE: Naturally, Republican perfidy knows no bounds ("...she's a celebrity that was going to come," whines Tom Reynolds). I love how the response of the Simpson camp, albeit headed by pimp/dad Joe S., is all, "but we do love you, dahlings -- muah, muah [air kiss, air kiss]."
I'm not of course going to extoll her praises til the cows come home, either. It's not like she dashed into a house collapsed by an earthquake to rescue a basket full of kittens, or formulated a workable Unified Field Theory.
She did, from the perspective of a modern Republican, something much, much more heinous: she refused to be a fundraising and public-relations tool for the party of Mammon, Satan, and Jesse Helms:
"It just feels wrong," one Simpson insider told Reuters on Wednesday, adding that the actress keeps her political views private. "She would love to meet the president and talk about Operation Smile ... but she can't do it at a fund-raiser for the Republican Party."
One wishes certain columnists *armstrongwilliamscough-cough* and the commanders of U.S. servicemen used as campaign props had been as circumspect.
You know what? Even though I've mostly held my tongue (out of disinterest as much as anything), I have until now counted myself firmly in the Let's Mock The Bimbo Who Works Her Ass More Often Than Her Single Rickety Ganglion Camp.
Yeah, her music is basically a 1:20 scale injection-molded plastic replica of the dreck Ann Margret used to put out. But I find I'm definitely developing a modicum of respect for the woman herself. And if that puts me on the wrong side of the smarmy and vaguely threatening (in this article) Carl Forti, and der gefälschte Cowboy hisself, so much the better.
P.S. If anyone happens to check out Chaz Johnson's teeming meth lab or Freepi Bedlam to see what they're saying about her, report back here in the comments, and we can all marvel anew at her death-defying courage. I don't have the stomach for it myself. Besides, it's going to be a long day.
UPDATE: Naturally, Republican perfidy knows no bounds ("...she's a celebrity that was going to come," whines Tom Reynolds). I love how the response of the Simpson camp, albeit headed by pimp/dad Joe S., is all, "but we do love you, dahlings -- muah, muah [air kiss, air kiss]."
A Glance At Townhall: Goldberg Punches Self In Face
3.15.2006
Ore : 8:55 AM
Ore : 8:55 AM
So I'm just drifting by Townhall this morning, only to find I couldn't enter because the building's been condemned. Silly conservatives -- should've sprang for that asbestos removal!
Anyway, I was limited pretty much to checking out the bulletin board-
Okay, fine, you get a moment to chuckle at the title ("Vive la sloth!"), penned by le Pantload hisself.
All right, moment's up.
Back to our polymath wunderlump [emphasis mine, bitterness masquerading as contemptuous amusement in the original]:
"Imagine riot police had to be sent into Harvard to quell an enormous student protest. OK, that's not terribly hard to imagine. But instead of the usual reasons for prosperous students to get all uppity - gay rights, antiwar hoopla, a strong math requirement..."
But what's this? Only a few paragraphs later:
"And what greater hell is there than Americanization? After all, between 1970 and 2003, America produced 59 million jobs. France, Germany and Italy put together managed to create fewer than 18 million jobs over the same period..."
Quick, someone e-mail this to John Derbyshire (be sure to put "buggery" somewhere in the subject line if you want him to read it.) I mean, I'm no statistics whiz (not to mention that I'm the exact opposite of wealthy), but clearly I have a better chance than Jonah G. of not getting drop-kicked out of a Harvard first-year maths class.
And to those of you for whom these two passages are not self-evidently contradictory, enjoy your free ride scholarship to Goucher College. Hopefully you can substitute any class that requires you to explain your statistics (or engage in any exercise in logic at all, for that matter) with BSG Fisking 101.
Moving on... Not much else, I'm afraid. Dr. Mike "Vaginas? EEEK!" Adams tells us the best way to talk to a Muslim fundamentalist is to call him a faggot. Stands to reason; it certainly seems to work on those Christian snake-handler types.
Eh, what else... Oh, lookie here! Apparently former Yalies, another group clearly too good for Harvard's pathetic admission standards, are sending their alma mater a bunch of red fingernails because the school admitted some Taliban guy. Of course, I'm upping the ante: not to be outdone by Lee press-ons, I'll be shipping in vials of menstrual blood. Collected from heterosexual Christian virgins, of course.
Okay, this blows. I'm trundling my wares over to the marketplace -- the Marketplace of Ideas!
Anyway, I was limited pretty much to checking out the bulletin board-
Okay, fine, you get a moment to chuckle at the title ("Vive la sloth!"), penned by le Pantload hisself.
All right, moment's up.
Back to our polymath wunderlump [emphasis mine, bitterness masquerading as contemptuous amusement in the original]:
"Imagine riot police had to be sent into Harvard to quell an enormous student protest. OK, that's not terribly hard to imagine. But instead of the usual reasons for prosperous students to get all uppity - gay rights, antiwar hoopla, a strong math requirement..."
But what's this? Only a few paragraphs later:
"And what greater hell is there than Americanization? After all, between 1970 and 2003, America produced 59 million jobs. France, Germany and Italy put together managed to create fewer than 18 million jobs over the same period..."
Quick, someone e-mail this to John Derbyshire (be sure to put "buggery" somewhere in the subject line if you want him to read it.) I mean, I'm no statistics whiz (not to mention that I'm the exact opposite of wealthy), but clearly I have a better chance than Jonah G. of not getting drop-kicked out of a Harvard first-year maths class.
And to those of you for whom these two passages are not self-evidently contradictory, enjoy your free ride scholarship to Goucher College. Hopefully you can substitute any class that requires you to explain your statistics (or engage in any exercise in logic at all, for that matter) with BSG Fisking 101.
Moving on... Not much else, I'm afraid. Dr. Mike "Vaginas? EEEK!" Adams tells us the best way to talk to a Muslim fundamentalist is to call him a faggot. Stands to reason; it certainly seems to work on those Christian snake-handler types.
Eh, what else... Oh, lookie here! Apparently former Yalies, another group clearly too good for Harvard's pathetic admission standards, are sending their alma mater a bunch of red fingernails because the school admitted some Taliban guy. Of course, I'm upping the ante: not to be outdone by Lee press-ons, I'll be shipping in vials of menstrual blood. Collected from heterosexual Christian virgins, of course.
Okay, this blows. I'm trundling my wares over to the marketplace -- the Marketplace of Ideas!
Why Yes, I Love to Polish Sausages
3.14.2006
Ore : 11:33 AM
Ore : 11:33 AM
This is about seeing things that aren't there.
This is not a review of a movie, as I, lowly rural prole that I am, will not be seeing the movie in question for another couple of weeks. Rather, this is a review of a review.
James Wolcott, God bless him, saw this coming, and is in a position to better do what I'm about to do. But anyone can appreciate a sparkling gem of bullshit when it's presented in a setting of its own precious inconsistencies and blinkered thinking. Among David Denby's possibly valid criticisms -- that the non-action scenes are ponderously handled, that Hugo Weaving is no James Mason, that Guy Fawkes and not Natalie Portman's Evey is "at the emotional center of the movie" (again, I've not seen it, but this "emotional center of film x" rubbish is too frequently deployed by the likes of Medved to pass suspicion) -- he tries to make the point that V for Vendetta "...celebrates terrorism and destruction..." because the protagonists destroy Parliament, that hallowed symbol "of liberal democracy," instead of, one is left to suppose, some arbitrarily created symbol of unequivocal tyranny. Never mind how often in the course of human history symbols have come to mean something other than what was originally intended.
More interesting is the mindset on display here, one analogous to that of anti-flag burners -- one cannot help but detect in Denby a willingness to, in defense of a beloved symbol, subvert everything that symbol stands for. It echoes the patriotic zeal of the current American leadership, who are convinced that we can protect our country only by dismantling those which have been its core principles for the past 225 years. "We had to destroy the village in order to save it." Some souls you can win over to the Lord only at the auto da fé.
More to the point, perhaps I should paraphrase a self-avowed conservative from V's IMDB message boards, a fan who was sure the movie doesn't glorify terrorism, as the targets were government and military, not malls or elementary schools.
Wolcott's right. Denby seems to have dropped anchor in the shallow bay of neoconservatism, if he has not already foundered on the shoals of abject Bush-worship:
"...in normal circumstances only a literal-minded prig would treat graphic novelists or big-screen fantasists as if they had any responsibility to truth."
Ah, but these are not normal circumstances, are they? So it would be unfair to call you a literal-minded prig. After all, 9/11 CHANGED EVERYTHING AND WE ARE FACING THE GREATEST TERROR EVAR!!1!!1!
We dare not present crimethink art to a guy who's more frightened of the owner of the local halal deli than he was of Soviet ICBMs during Reagan's reign.
I won't even get into his misappropriation of Orwell's 1984, which he seems to have grokked only partially -- a comprehension predicated not on the novel itself, but on years and years of yeoman work by think-tank bred "intellectuals" hell-bent on proving its staunch Rightism. Nor do I have the patience, caffeine, or time today to approach his hinted-at tautology that our Room 101s are just hunky dory because they're our Room 101s. But it is too much to ignore when Denby implies that "V" is only "allegedly antifascist" because it appears to "[lust] after fire and death." It is absurd to think that any cause inimical to fascism has not needed violence in support of its struggle. But this is typical of the lazy, "I'm in a bind because I want to stand by my W without overtly proving the point I'm trying to rail against" thinking presented by Denby. One needs only to see his half-hearted disclaimer that he wouldn't dare think of questioning one's right to free speech, however...[finger wag, tsk-tsk, etc.]
Again, Wolcott could have done this better, but he probably has to endure the guy at cocktail parties and run-ins about the neighborhood. I on the other hand suffer no such constraint.
This is about seeing things that aren't there. This is about how people who fight thought-crime will always fail, because they fail to realize that there is no such thing.
This is not a review of a movie, as I, lowly rural prole that I am, will not be seeing the movie in question for another couple of weeks. Rather, this is a review of a review.
James Wolcott, God bless him, saw this coming, and is in a position to better do what I'm about to do. But anyone can appreciate a sparkling gem of bullshit when it's presented in a setting of its own precious inconsistencies and blinkered thinking. Among David Denby's possibly valid criticisms -- that the non-action scenes are ponderously handled, that Hugo Weaving is no James Mason, that Guy Fawkes and not Natalie Portman's Evey is "at the emotional center of the movie" (again, I've not seen it, but this "emotional center of film x" rubbish is too frequently deployed by the likes of Medved to pass suspicion) -- he tries to make the point that V for Vendetta "...celebrates terrorism and destruction..." because the protagonists destroy Parliament, that hallowed symbol "of liberal democracy," instead of, one is left to suppose, some arbitrarily created symbol of unequivocal tyranny. Never mind how often in the course of human history symbols have come to mean something other than what was originally intended.
More interesting is the mindset on display here, one analogous to that of anti-flag burners -- one cannot help but detect in Denby a willingness to, in defense of a beloved symbol, subvert everything that symbol stands for. It echoes the patriotic zeal of the current American leadership, who are convinced that we can protect our country only by dismantling those which have been its core principles for the past 225 years. "We had to destroy the village in order to save it." Some souls you can win over to the Lord only at the auto da fé.
More to the point, perhaps I should paraphrase a self-avowed conservative from V's IMDB message boards, a fan who was sure the movie doesn't glorify terrorism, as the targets were government and military, not malls or elementary schools.
Wolcott's right. Denby seems to have dropped anchor in the shallow bay of neoconservatism, if he has not already foundered on the shoals of abject Bush-worship:
"...in normal circumstances only a literal-minded prig would treat graphic novelists or big-screen fantasists as if they had any responsibility to truth."
Ah, but these are not normal circumstances, are they? So it would be unfair to call you a literal-minded prig. After all, 9/11 CHANGED EVERYTHING AND WE ARE FACING THE GREATEST TERROR EVAR!!1!!1!
We dare not present crimethink art to a guy who's more frightened of the owner of the local halal deli than he was of Soviet ICBMs during Reagan's reign.
I won't even get into his misappropriation of Orwell's 1984, which he seems to have grokked only partially -- a comprehension predicated not on the novel itself, but on years and years of yeoman work by think-tank bred "intellectuals" hell-bent on proving its staunch Rightism. Nor do I have the patience, caffeine, or time today to approach his hinted-at tautology that our Room 101s are just hunky dory because they're our Room 101s. But it is too much to ignore when Denby implies that "V" is only "allegedly antifascist" because it appears to "[lust] after fire and death." It is absurd to think that any cause inimical to fascism has not needed violence in support of its struggle. But this is typical of the lazy, "I'm in a bind because I want to stand by my W without overtly proving the point I'm trying to rail against" thinking presented by Denby. One needs only to see his half-hearted disclaimer that he wouldn't dare think of questioning one's right to free speech, however...[finger wag, tsk-tsk, etc.]
Again, Wolcott could have done this better, but he probably has to endure the guy at cocktail parties and run-ins about the neighborhood. I on the other hand suffer no such constraint.
This is about seeing things that aren't there. This is about how people who fight thought-crime will always fail, because they fail to realize that there is no such thing.
This Is HIS America!
3.13.2006
Ore : 8:57 AM
Ore : 8:57 AM
Why yes, I did vote for the man who would put oil executives in charge of environmental protection. Why shouldn't I? My logic here is unimpeachable: who better to understand the latest techniques in evading public accountability than those who've been doing it for years? And if these men and women decide that it's in the country's best interests to remove said protections altogether, who am I to argue? If they can run multi-billion-dollar corporations that continue to post record profits quarter after quarter, surely they can run -- nay, improve -- some rickety government agency formed to oversee said corporations.
That's right. I've always been this principled and intelligent. Just the other day, I hired housecleaning guru Billy Mays to teach my children how to use their inside voices. It's all about reverse psychology, something I think I've finally got the hang of. No need for them to emulate those loud, indolent, blubbery-lipped, taxpayer-looting, baggy-pantalooned inner-city types of whom I'm always hearing hints in Peggy Noonan's columns. The children are our future, which is why I school mine at home, away from the clutches of atheist homosexual abortionists, where the law cannot ban them from reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, which I've in fact improved upon. The original simply lacked enough Godliness for my taste. Now, my precious little babies in Christ place their clean hands over their sinful-yet-forgiven hearts, and say "I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the Dominion, for which it stands, one Godly nation, under God, undeceivable, with Godliness, Jesustasticity, and freedom from God-killing Jews for all real Red-State Americans Living In Christ. Amen." They then turn from the Stars and Bars, and open their photocopies of Ken Hovind-approved lessons, and start their day.
(No, you little shits, you may not go onto MySpace. Be grateful I'm the only sexual predator you know, and that I haven't yet traded those special pictures with my fellow child-rapists among the Tubeclap County Republican Party. Back to your cages!)
Where was I? Oh, yes, national defense. While it's true that the Constitution says that President Bush is the Commander-in-Chief of only the Army and the Navy, because Mr. Bush has been such a good president and Christian, and has been treated so poorly by treasonous "Americans," he ought to be cut some slack here. We've taken white-out to the Constitution before. Sometimes you have to go above the law as it is written. Why not this time? Surely George W. Bush, our greatest president since Washington, deserves at least that much. We should make him the Commander-in-Chief of all Americans. That'll cut out any wiggle room for those squirrelly, terrorist-enabling Dhimmicrats. This way, whenever someone criticizes the President -- says he lied about Iraq, or says he doesn't care about blackamoors (I mean, hello: Condi!) -- we can rightfully and without any obstruction nail that person for giving aid and comfort to the enemy (communists, jihadis, and also Satan). Then we can round up that LIEberal, Mooslim-loving Nancy Pelosi and her family, and put them in one of those new Halliburton Camps. Sure, they may not get waterboarded as much as necessary, and they'll get fat off of delicious glazed chicken, but at least they'll be out of the way of real Americans doing the work that needs doing. And we can finally drag that fake Indian Ward Churchill out of his ivory tower office naked and screaming, and string him up from the nearest lamppost until he is dead, dead, dead!
The Good Lord wouldn't want it any other way. I know, because he speaks to me.
Would you like to see some pictures of my children?
That's right. I've always been this principled and intelligent. Just the other day, I hired housecleaning guru Billy Mays to teach my children how to use their inside voices. It's all about reverse psychology, something I think I've finally got the hang of. No need for them to emulate those loud, indolent, blubbery-lipped, taxpayer-looting, baggy-pantalooned inner-city types of whom I'm always hearing hints in Peggy Noonan's columns. The children are our future, which is why I school mine at home, away from the clutches of atheist homosexual abortionists, where the law cannot ban them from reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, which I've in fact improved upon. The original simply lacked enough Godliness for my taste. Now, my precious little babies in Christ place their clean hands over their sinful-yet-forgiven hearts, and say "I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the Dominion, for which it stands, one Godly nation, under God, undeceivable, with Godliness, Jesustasticity, and freedom from God-killing Jews for all real Red-State Americans Living In Christ. Amen." They then turn from the Stars and Bars, and open their photocopies of Ken Hovind-approved lessons, and start their day.(No, you little shits, you may not go onto MySpace. Be grateful I'm the only sexual predator you know, and that I haven't yet traded those special pictures with my fellow child-rapists among the Tubeclap County Republican Party. Back to your cages!)
Where was I? Oh, yes, national defense. While it's true that the Constitution says that President Bush is the Commander-in-Chief of only the Army and the Navy, because Mr. Bush has been such a good president and Christian, and has been treated so poorly by treasonous "Americans," he ought to be cut some slack here. We've taken white-out to the Constitution before. Sometimes you have to go above the law as it is written. Why not this time? Surely George W. Bush, our greatest president since Washington, deserves at least that much. We should make him the Commander-in-Chief of all Americans. That'll cut out any wiggle room for those squirrelly, terrorist-enabling Dhimmicrats. This way, whenever someone criticizes the President -- says he lied about Iraq, or says he doesn't care about blackamoors (I mean, hello: Condi!) -- we can rightfully and without any obstruction nail that person for giving aid and comfort to the enemy (communists, jihadis, and also Satan). Then we can round up that LIEberal, Mooslim-loving Nancy Pelosi and her family, and put them in one of those new Halliburton Camps. Sure, they may not get waterboarded as much as necessary, and they'll get fat off of delicious glazed chicken, but at least they'll be out of the way of real Americans doing the work that needs doing. And we can finally drag that fake Indian Ward Churchill out of his ivory tower office naked and screaming, and string him up from the nearest lamppost until he is dead, dead, dead!
The Good Lord wouldn't want it any other way. I know, because he speaks to me.
Would you like to see some pictures of my children?
In The Medieval Stylee
3.12.2006
Ore : 10:49 AM
Ore : 10:49 AM
"The difference is, the other King George was more civilized..."Inside the tent, they jocularly singe each other for a failure to govern and an unwillingness to face accountability. Oh, and rib Cheney for almost killing a guy.
Outside, we take the blame for their failures, and listen to the last words of those Cheney helped really kill.
At least Bush didn't make another "where them WMDs at, anyway?" joke.
(This lazy, bitter post dedicated to Clif. Thank you, Clif!)
Doo-wopping At The Corner
3.10.2006
Ore : 12:51 PM
Ore : 12:51 PM
The kids are standing around a fire in a barrel, rubbing their hands. Gosh, I hope Daddy Norman drops by to pass out tins of hot beans-&-franks -- it's getting cold out there!
Some recent random lowlights:
- A Reuters photo twists Kathryn Lopez's voluminous panties into a bind.
- Andy McCarthy is clearly unaware that those were not wily red Chinee or their rascally, inscrutable sympathizers who piloted jet planes into the Pentagon and the Twin Towers. Oops.
- Jonah, in a moment of stunning candor, admits that his (and, he suspects, fellow Cornerite Ramesh's) stand on abortion has no real intellectual or moral ballast. In a roundabout way, of course.
A telling quote:
...Is it -- and I suspect this is the closest to the real answer -- because huge majorities of Americans just detest the idea that women should have to have children from rape and incest?
Odd how it never occurs to him that "huge majorities of Americans" (interesting construct, but okay...) oppose women being forced into childbirth, period.
- Stanley Kurtz, be not is he that Bizarro World Cassandra, continues to warn us that gay marriage today means polygamy tomorrow, so we'd better batten down the hatches of the SS Mythical Nuclear Family right now (tantalizingly leaving out any practical suggestions for how this should be done).
You've gotta love it. Ramesh and Sully play cobra and mongoose. Debbie Schlussel and the Idiot Rottweiler are on the same run of penicillin (stupid libertarian -- should've used a rubber!) Congressional Republicans, eyes on the polls, are pulling the rug out from under Bush every chance they get.
The conservative movement is falling apart at the seams, and not even Rod Dreher's gingham-bedecked ball-&-chain will run it through her pedal-powered sewing machine, because Jonah's been such a jerk.
We've been living in interesting times for a while now. It's nice to see that the independerepubliconservatarians have finally deigned to join us.
P.S. Just so we're clear, stuff like the Dubai Ports deal and concrete sentences for womb-baby killers is not separating the nutballs from the principled Republicans -- it's all chaff here, folks. These internal disputes are merely separating the wild-eyed conservatarian Bush-worshippers from the erstwhile wild-eyed conservatarian Bush-worshippers who, in this brave new election cycle are realizing that jumping ship is the only way to save what's left.
P.P.S. If you give to my library Jesus will give you an all-access pass to heaven.
Some recent random lowlights:
- A Reuters photo twists Kathryn Lopez's voluminous panties into a bind.
Ahh, sweet, sweet Liberal Media...
- Andy McCarthy is clearly unaware that those were not wily red Chinee or their rascally, inscrutable sympathizers who piloted jet planes into the Pentagon and the Twin Towers. Oops.
- Jonah, in a moment of stunning candor, admits that his (and, he suspects, fellow Cornerite Ramesh's) stand on abortion has no real intellectual or moral ballast. In a roundabout way, of course.
A telling quote:
...Is it -- and I suspect this is the closest to the real answer -- because huge majorities of Americans just detest the idea that women should have to have children from rape and incest?
Odd how it never occurs to him that "huge majorities of Americans" (interesting construct, but okay...) oppose women being forced into childbirth, period.
- Stanley Kurtz, be not is he that Bizarro World Cassandra, continues to warn us that gay marriage today means polygamy tomorrow, so we'd better batten down the hatches of the SS Mythical Nuclear Family right now (tantalizingly leaving out any practical suggestions for how this should be done).
***
You've gotta love it. Ramesh and Sully play cobra and mongoose. Debbie Schlussel and the Idiot Rottweiler are on the same run of penicillin (stupid libertarian -- should've used a rubber!) Congressional Republicans, eyes on the polls, are pulling the rug out from under Bush every chance they get.
The conservative movement is falling apart at the seams, and not even Rod Dreher's gingham-bedecked ball-&-chain will run it through her pedal-powered sewing machine, because Jonah's been such a jerk.
We've been living in interesting times for a while now. It's nice to see that the independerepubliconservatarians have finally deigned to join us.
P.S. Just so we're clear, stuff like the Dubai Ports deal and concrete sentences for womb-baby killers is not separating the nutballs from the principled Republicans -- it's all chaff here, folks. These internal disputes are merely separating the wild-eyed conservatarian Bush-worshippers from the erstwhile wild-eyed conservatarian Bush-worshippers who, in this brave new election cycle are realizing that jumping ship is the only way to save what's left.
P.P.S. If you give to my library Jesus will give you an all-access pass to heaven.
Siriusly, Why Not?
Ore : 8:24 AM
When the juices aren't flowing, you can always just plug some shit into a template to keep the masses satisfied...
"Sancho Panza", The Plastic Constellations: Sometimes some bands (see Nightmare of You) get play on LoC just because they've been passed over by FUSE, perhaps because there's no budget for videos. This is straight-up Fallout Boy, but with a barely-there wigger asshole vibe. I confess bewilderment: I mean, they dress so cute... 3/10
"The Swish", The Hold Steady: I'm convinced that lead singer Craig Finn is a chunky, beery cokehead who doubles as a high-functioning autistic -- think Mooney Suzuki on anti-psychotics and without commercial instincts. Old punks are the best. Anyway, the kind of guys who groove like badasses when this song starts blaring over the PA at Zeitgeist are exactly the kind of dickheads The Hold Steady probably resent and start fights with. Irony, huh? 7.5/10
"In The Sun", Michael Stipe w/ Joseph Arthur: Not a terribly huge fan of either singer (yeah, yeah R.E.M. are gods, blah, blah, blah), so this one really took me by surprise. I'm going to play this until I get sick of it. 'Nuff said. 9/10 (for now)
"Center Of The Universe", Built To Spill: This replay from their 1999 album hasn't aged well, mostly because it was old when it was released -- serviceable if creaky indie pop that may as well have been made in '89. Meh. 4/10
"I Ain't Saying My Goodbyes", Tom Vek: One day, straight male American singer/songwriters will grow big enough balls to craft tunes that rock, have funk, flaunt style, and wouldn't be out of place playing to an impromptu dancefloor at a bitchin' dyke houseparty in Echo Park. One day. 8.5/10 (Half point extra 'cos I'm a sucker for that retro "pyoo-pyoo" lazer sound effect)
"The Blankest Year", Nada Surf: The Chrissy Snow of college-radio bands scores a hit with this one, mainly because their typical superlative arrangements, catchy hooks, and sharp production are for once served well by their lyrics, which here are self-consciously and enjoyably stupid. Great to bounce around to while doing housework. 7/10
"Reverence", The Jesus & Mary Chain: Ooh, transgressive and vaguely political! Oh yeah, and not to mention positively fucking arthritic. 5/10
"Let's Get Sandy (Big Problem)", Be Your Own PET: Someone was weaned on Cadillaca and early (as in fetal) Le Tigre. Short, sweet, cute. 5/10 (did I mention it was short? Like, shorter than the title?)
"A Certain Romance", Arctic Monkeys: Yeah, they're another Kaiser Chiefs clone/Clash knock-off band. Well, okay, their lyrics are a bit more compelling -- closer to something written by Pete Doherty than KC. They continue to pull it off, though... Barely. 5/10
"In The Mouth A Desert", Pavement: The smartest thing Malkmus has done is hedge his professional prospects by going solo. You know what? Fuck this shit. I'm waiting for Pappy to come on... 4/10
Honestly, I don't know why I started this one while Christopher The Minister was on. I'm lucky I didn't have to sit through any Sebadoh or stinky, foul Greg Dulli.
"Sancho Panza", The Plastic Constellations: Sometimes some bands (see Nightmare of You) get play on LoC just because they've been passed over by FUSE, perhaps because there's no budget for videos. This is straight-up Fallout Boy, but with a barely-there wigger asshole vibe. I confess bewilderment: I mean, they dress so cute... 3/10
"The Swish", The Hold Steady: I'm convinced that lead singer Craig Finn is a chunky, beery cokehead who doubles as a high-functioning autistic -- think Mooney Suzuki on anti-psychotics and without commercial instincts. Old punks are the best. Anyway, the kind of guys who groove like badasses when this song starts blaring over the PA at Zeitgeist are exactly the kind of dickheads The Hold Steady probably resent and start fights with. Irony, huh? 7.5/10
"In The Sun", Michael Stipe w/ Joseph Arthur: Not a terribly huge fan of either singer (yeah, yeah R.E.M. are gods, blah, blah, blah), so this one really took me by surprise. I'm going to play this until I get sick of it. 'Nuff said. 9/10 (for now)
"Center Of The Universe", Built To Spill: This replay from their 1999 album hasn't aged well, mostly because it was old when it was released -- serviceable if creaky indie pop that may as well have been made in '89. Meh. 4/10
"I Ain't Saying My Goodbyes", Tom Vek: One day, straight male American singer/songwriters will grow big enough balls to craft tunes that rock, have funk, flaunt style, and wouldn't be out of place playing to an impromptu dancefloor at a bitchin' dyke houseparty in Echo Park. One day. 8.5/10 (Half point extra 'cos I'm a sucker for that retro "pyoo-pyoo" lazer sound effect)
"The Blankest Year", Nada Surf: The Chrissy Snow of college-radio bands scores a hit with this one, mainly because their typical superlative arrangements, catchy hooks, and sharp production are for once served well by their lyrics, which here are self-consciously and enjoyably stupid. Great to bounce around to while doing housework. 7/10
"Reverence", The Jesus & Mary Chain: Ooh, transgressive and vaguely political! Oh yeah, and not to mention positively fucking arthritic. 5/10
"Let's Get Sandy (Big Problem)", Be Your Own PET: Someone was weaned on Cadillaca and early (as in fetal) Le Tigre. Short, sweet, cute. 5/10 (did I mention it was short? Like, shorter than the title?)
"A Certain Romance", Arctic Monkeys: Yeah, they're another Kaiser Chiefs clone/Clash knock-off band. Well, okay, their lyrics are a bit more compelling -- closer to something written by Pete Doherty than KC. They continue to pull it off, though... Barely. 5/10
"In The Mouth A Desert", Pavement: The smartest thing Malkmus has done is hedge his professional prospects by going solo. You know what? Fuck this shit. I'm waiting for Pappy to come on... 4/10
Honestly, I don't know why I started this one while Christopher The Minister was on. I'm lucky I didn't have to sit through any Sebadoh or stinky, foul Greg Dulli.
Hey Wanna See My LiveJournal Impression?
3.09.2006
Ore : 2:06 PM
Ore : 2:06 PM
I don't belong.
- I should have a goatee.
- I should wear pleated Dockers and a cell-phone case on my woven belt.
- I should be 40 lbs. heavier around the middle.
- I should offer up an unctuous and ostentatious grace before a communal meal shared with my coworkers, because everyone should understand how much more Christian I am than they are.
- I should insist my wife never wear pants, only skirts and dresses -- even when she's just homeschooling our two tow-headed little sons.
- I should wear my Promise Keepers t-shirt to company bar-b-ques.
- I should talk loudly for the sake of anyone within earshot about my lastest trip to Chico/Sacramento/San Francisco, so I can impress them with my cosmopolitanishness. Ideally I should also be able to work into the anecdote a subtle fag or darkie joke.
- I should condescend to my female coworkers.
- I should drive a Dodge pick-up, as a hemi is the coolest thing ever. And the truck should have an a combination bunting/yellow-ribbon magnet, a Calvin praying sticker, and a "W '04" decal.
- I should listen to alternative Christian rock.
- I should look down on small-town rubes and big-city freaks with equal disdain.
- I should read the latest issue from my subscription to The National Review as conspicuously as possible.
- I should pressure the schoolboard to accept Of Pandas and People as a science textbook.
- I should complain loudly to the homeowner's association about the guy down the block who still has up his Kerry/Edwards banner. What an eyesore! Get over it already!
- I should, whenever ordering fast food, emphasize that I want a Biggie Size Freedom Fries.
- I should start watching NASCAR even though I hate it.
- I should actually read The Conscience of a Conservative (at least, if I'm gonna keep quoting it).
I should, but I don't. I don't belong. Waaaah.
SOUNDTRACK: Trapt.
MOOD:
Ever so emo. lol.
- I should have a goatee.
- I should wear pleated Dockers and a cell-phone case on my woven belt.
- I should be 40 lbs. heavier around the middle.
- I should offer up an unctuous and ostentatious grace before a communal meal shared with my coworkers, because everyone should understand how much more Christian I am than they are.
- I should insist my wife never wear pants, only skirts and dresses -- even when she's just homeschooling our two tow-headed little sons.
- I should wear my Promise Keepers t-shirt to company bar-b-ques.
- I should talk loudly for the sake of anyone within earshot about my lastest trip to Chico/Sacramento/San Francisco, so I can impress them with my cosmopolitanishness. Ideally I should also be able to work into the anecdote a subtle fag or darkie joke.
- I should condescend to my female coworkers.
- I should drive a Dodge pick-up, as a hemi is the coolest thing ever. And the truck should have an a combination bunting/yellow-ribbon magnet, a Calvin praying sticker, and a "W '04" decal.
- I should listen to alternative Christian rock.
- I should look down on small-town rubes and big-city freaks with equal disdain.
- I should read the latest issue from my subscription to The National Review as conspicuously as possible.
- I should pressure the schoolboard to accept Of Pandas and People as a science textbook.
- I should complain loudly to the homeowner's association about the guy down the block who still has up his Kerry/Edwards banner. What an eyesore! Get over it already!
- I should, whenever ordering fast food, emphasize that I want a Biggie Size Freedom Fries.
- I should start watching NASCAR even though I hate it.
- I should actually read The Conscience of a Conservative (at least, if I'm gonna keep quoting it).
I should, but I don't. I don't belong. Waaaah.
SOUNDTRACK: Trapt.
MOOD:
Ever so emo. lol.Culture Flotsam
3.08.2006
Ore : 10:21 PM
Ore : 10:21 PM
- Prince's Black Sweat: The little man still got it.
- Most annoying aspect of CSI and spin-offs: So many to choose from... How about the pedestrian panning shot or, better yet, test tube spinning/hair examining/ballistics testing montage, which you're not supposed to notice is killingly dull because of jump-cutty editing, and because it's accompanied by a jungle track or the hot new Coldplay single. Please.
- If you see anybody wearing a "more cowbell" T-shirt, feel free to whip them about the face with a car aerial. Especially if they're wearing a white belt -- especially.
- Shurayukihime will put you down like a rabid dog, no joke.
- Penguin brand shirts? Oh FTLOG, I was wearing those in '98. Damn.
- CCTV is a treasure trove of Chinese history, culture, and politics. A bonus are the quickie 20-minute Mandarin lessons given by that goofy, smarmily cute white guy in glasses. Must see teevee.
- You're a nasty piece of work, you are. Wipe that syrup off your chin, you lump.
- Always in fashion: supporting literacy.
- Most annoying aspect of CSI and spin-offs: So many to choose from... How about the pedestrian panning shot or, better yet, test tube spinning/hair examining/ballistics testing montage, which you're not supposed to notice is killingly dull because of jump-cutty editing, and because it's accompanied by a jungle track or the hot new Coldplay single. Please.
- If you see anybody wearing a "more cowbell" T-shirt, feel free to whip them about the face with a car aerial. Especially if they're wearing a white belt -- especially.
- Shurayukihime will put you down like a rabid dog, no joke.
- Penguin brand shirts? Oh FTLOG, I was wearing those in '98. Damn.
- CCTV is a treasure trove of Chinese history, culture, and politics. A bonus are the quickie 20-minute Mandarin lessons given by that goofy, smarmily cute white guy in glasses. Must see teevee.
- You're a nasty piece of work, you are. Wipe that syrup off your chin, you lump.
- Always in fashion: supporting literacy.
Just Wondering...
Ore : 8:51 AM
Rumsfeld nabs FOX's trial balloon and runs with it: "...U.S. Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld, while criticizing media coverage of the war Tuesday, told reporters at the Pentagon he didn't think there was a civil war in Iraq."
Questions: Shouldn't Rumsfeld be paying more attention to the war itself and less to its portrayal -- shouldn't he be concerned less with Americans' perceptions and more with reality? Can someone in the press please call him out on his boneheaded adherence to the Tinkerbell approach to foreign policy? Seems to me that victory is contingent more on one's plan for securing (not to mention one's definition of) victory, and less on what people who have no influence think.
Okay, so public schoolteacher Jay Bennish, well or poorly, thoughtfully or not, tries to make the point that the Bush administration has a little too much in common with historical fascist regimes. This compels an ardent Bush supporter among his students to tape the rant, play it to his parents, and take it to a right-wing talk show host, driving AM radio, countless Op-Ed pages, and Right Blogsylvannia into a fury. Pressure is brought to bear, Bennish is placed on suspension -- he even receives death threats.
Question: Aren't all these people, in doing this, sort of proving his point for him?
Unrelated question: Does Elton John need to backhand some sense into our favorite Karma Chameleon? 'Cuz, IMHO, bitch be too old for this shit. Fo realz.
And, as always, the wish list for my local public library.
Questions: Shouldn't Rumsfeld be paying more attention to the war itself and less to its portrayal -- shouldn't he be concerned less with Americans' perceptions and more with reality? Can someone in the press please call him out on his boneheaded adherence to the Tinkerbell approach to foreign policy? Seems to me that victory is contingent more on one's plan for securing (not to mention one's definition of) victory, and less on what people who have no influence think.
Okay, so public schoolteacher Jay Bennish, well or poorly, thoughtfully or not, tries to make the point that the Bush administration has a little too much in common with historical fascist regimes. This compels an ardent Bush supporter among his students to tape the rant, play it to his parents, and take it to a right-wing talk show host, driving AM radio, countless Op-Ed pages, and Right Blogsylvannia into a fury. Pressure is brought to bear, Bennish is placed on suspension -- he even receives death threats.
Question: Aren't all these people, in doing this, sort of proving his point for him?
Unrelated question: Does Elton John need to backhand some sense into our favorite Karma Chameleon? 'Cuz, IMHO, bitch be too old for this shit. Fo realz.
And, as always, the wish list for my local public library.
Stupid Quiz
3.07.2006
Ore : 12:56 PM
Ore : 12:56 PM
Grumble grumble Otto grumble grumble.
1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18 and find line 4
"...severe character defect. The sense of that ball, so anxiously..."
Bet you'll never guess where that came from. And it just happened to be on top of a pile that needs recataloguing, which is why it's the closest.
2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can, what do you find?
The periodicals check-in file.
3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?
Um, something on the Hi(tler & UFOs)story Channel about sunken ships. Wasn't really paying attention.
4. Without looking, guess what time it is.
The right time... For makin' whoopie!
5. Now look at the clock, what is the actual time?
12:09.
6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?
Eef Barzelay singing "Ballad of Bitter Honey," as well as the heater fan. Oh, and trucks.
7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
An hour ago. I smoked a cigarillo.
8. Before you started this survey, what did you look at?
A comments thread at Sadly, No!
9. What are you wearing?
Black hoodie, black Carhartts, black hi-top All-Stars. And a greasy cock-ring.
10. Did you dream last night?
Yes. Something about me sucker-punching Avril Lavigne in her stringy uterus.
11. When did you last laugh?
When I saw your mom.
12. What is on the walls of the room you are in?
Years-old smears of fecal matter. Kidding. A calendar.
... A Mapplethorpe calendar. Heh, heh.
13. Seen anything weird lately?
You betcha.
14. What do you think of this quiz?
I think I'd like to find whoever wrote it, take his head, and stuff it in a hornet's nest.
15. What is the last film you saw?
Bring Me The Head of Alfredo Garcia
16. If you turned into a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy?
A ticket to ride... Oh, and some Eastern European rent boys.
17. Tell me something about you that I don’t know.
That I'm a virgin and a pathological liar.
18. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt and politics, what would you do?
Provide Tom Sizemore with all the hookers, meth, and videotape his fucked-up little heart desires.
19. Do you like to Dance?
Only with other clean-cut, well-heeled white people.
20. George Bush.
Paris Hilton with a penis, a wife, and 30 more years.
21. Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him?
Fancy Lesleena Marie
22. Imagine your first child is a girl, what would you call her?
I would call her serruptitiously left in the wild to die of exposure.
23. Would you ever consider living abroad?
I already have.
24. What would you want God to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?
That Pat Robertson, James Dobson, Fred Phelps, and Jerry Falwell aren't invited.
25. 4 people who must also do this theme in their journal.
Fuck you I wouldn't inflict this on anyone else. Not even Joe Scarborough, Bill O'Reilly, Michelle Malkin, or SeanS!
Okay, I'm still begging. Please help a podunk little library provide its patrons with some some crap to read.
1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18 and find line 4
"...severe character defect. The sense of that ball, so anxiously..."
Bet you'll never guess where that came from. And it just happened to be on top of a pile that needs recataloguing, which is why it's the closest.
2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can, what do you find?
The periodicals check-in file.
3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?
Um, something on the Hi(tler & UFOs)story Channel about sunken ships. Wasn't really paying attention.
4. Without looking, guess what time it is.
The right time... For makin' whoopie!
5. Now look at the clock, what is the actual time?
12:09.
6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?
Eef Barzelay singing "Ballad of Bitter Honey," as well as the heater fan. Oh, and trucks.
7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
An hour ago. I smoked a cigarillo.
8. Before you started this survey, what did you look at?
A comments thread at Sadly, No!
9. What are you wearing?
Black hoodie, black Carhartts, black hi-top All-Stars. And a greasy cock-ring.
10. Did you dream last night?
Yes. Something about me sucker-punching Avril Lavigne in her stringy uterus.
11. When did you last laugh?
When I saw your mom.
12. What is on the walls of the room you are in?
Years-old smears of fecal matter. Kidding. A calendar.
... A Mapplethorpe calendar. Heh, heh.
13. Seen anything weird lately?
You betcha.
14. What do you think of this quiz?
I think I'd like to find whoever wrote it, take his head, and stuff it in a hornet's nest.
15. What is the last film you saw?
Bring Me The Head of Alfredo Garcia
16. If you turned into a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy?
A ticket to ride... Oh, and some Eastern European rent boys.
17. Tell me something about you that I don’t know.
That I'm a virgin and a pathological liar.
18. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt and politics, what would you do?
Provide Tom Sizemore with all the hookers, meth, and videotape his fucked-up little heart desires.
19. Do you like to Dance?
Only with other clean-cut, well-heeled white people.
20. George Bush.
Paris Hilton with a penis, a wife, and 30 more years.
21. Imagine your first child is a boy, what do you call him?
Fancy Lesleena Marie
22. Imagine your first child is a girl, what would you call her?
I would call her serruptitiously left in the wild to die of exposure.
23. Would you ever consider living abroad?
I already have.
24. What would you want God to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?
That Pat Robertson, James Dobson, Fred Phelps, and Jerry Falwell aren't invited.
25. 4 people who must also do this theme in their journal.
Fuck you I wouldn't inflict this on anyone else. Not even Joe Scarborough, Bill O'Reilly, Michelle Malkin, or SeanS!
Okay, I'm still begging. Please help a podunk little library provide its patrons with some some crap to read.
Freedom Camp | Blogger Templates by layoutstudios.com and Gecko & Fly.
No part of the content or the blog may be reproduced without prior written permission.
Learn how to Make Money Online at GeckoandFly
