I'll admit it. When I was a kid, I loved dressing up the family dog in "people" clothes. I'd patiently work with the family collie mix, Pixie, until she was all decked out in her Sunday best (usually something from my sister's closet). Or I'd outfit her with a Chicago Bears jersey, pair of Reeboks, and Blueblocker sunglasses. Yeah - I had a ton of fun pretending my dog was the punky QB, Jim McMahon. I'd even arrange photo shoots using dad's Polaroid camera, trying to get her pose like the Heisman trophy.
But I was 11 years old.
Here's a site full of pictures, taken presumably by adults, of dressed up pets. The guy who has posted these humiliating pet pics isn't awarding the owners any praise for their effort. He's actually convinced they are mentally disturbed and has included some nice captions alongside the photos.
See for youself what these dogs might say to their owners if only they could speak.
Many laughs.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
GREEN IS LOOKING BETTER EVERY DAY
It has been stated that the American people vote not with their hearts and minds, but with their wallets. If this is the case, I am looking forward to seeing some fresh faces in Congress this November. Some greener faces.
Here's some food for thought where your wallet is concerned:
On the day Bush was inaugurated, 1/20/2001, the average price of gasoline was $1.66/gallon. Remember when we thought THAT was outrageous? (I don't either, but I'm sure I was bitching about it) Yesterday I filled up at $3.66/gallon. I'm also having a hard time finding a fucking loaf of bread for under $2. When the price of gas goes up, the price of EVERYTHING goes up. The raise you thought you were getting? Sorry - that money had to be moved over to pay for the sudden jump in transportation costs.
Unfortunately, the invasion of an oil-rich nation (that had no WMDs, no ties to terrorism, and posed no immediate threat to our safety) did not help bring the cost of gas down any. In a country whose economic welfare is tethered to the availability of oil, a spike in prices like this simply can't be good for business. In just 6 years, the cost of getting from here to there has more than doubled. And that's all we do in this country - we get from here to there. And from there to here. And sometimes from somewhere to nowhere and back. We are movers. Drivers. Commuters. Travelers. Round, round, get around, we get around.
And nobody walks anywhere anymore (just look at our waistlines). We can't! We all live in the suburbs. What percentage of the American workforce lives within walking distance of work? We are a historical anomoly. Since man first started earning a wage for a hard day's work he has slept no further than a short hike to work. To the farm. To the mine. To the factory. To the shop.
This is a radical change in the way societies live, work, and function - a change afforded us by the availability of cheap oil. And now that we're all so spread out, oil suddenly isn't so cheap anymore. Sadly, we have no choice pay it or move. Gotta get to work, right? Gotta get to the doctor. Gotta get to the store. Gotta visit the family.
Remember the controversial Bush tax cut we got several years ago? The one where the government sent us all checks in the mail? I think I have officially given all of it, and then some, back to the oil companies - who are posting record profits quarter after financial quarter, by the way. Conservative economic advisors in closed-door meetings with oil execs call that "ooze-down economics."
Green is the color of the future, my friends, and the sooner we get there, the better off we'll be. All of us, and in more ways than one. To sustain our modern lifestyles, marked by the freedom to live and work wherever we choose, a luxury to which we have grown so accustomed, we need to find more cost-efficient ways of getting around. Period. And they are right before our eyes. The electric-hybrid car. Solar power. Ethanol. Hydrogen fuel. And many others in development. Other industrialized nations are way ahead of us in exploring breakthrough technologies, but we lag far behind thanks to the self-sustaining oil lobby and the short-sighted interests of those we have trusted to make smart decisions on our behalf. But they have betrayed us, and for this we must rise up and take back the power to shape our collective destiny.
Go ahead and vote with your wallet. In this case, it's also better for your lungs.
We can do this if we can get the politicians married to big oil OUT OF OFFICE. Maybe it's 10% of them. Maybe it's half. Maybe it's all of them. But we have the power to make it happen. Turn off the televised ads pitching the same horseshit this fall and look up the truth on your own. It's out there.
No, it's not going to be easy being green...but it will be a lot cheaper and healthier in the long run.
Here's some food for thought where your wallet is concerned:
On the day Bush was inaugurated, 1/20/2001, the average price of gasoline was $1.66/gallon. Remember when we thought THAT was outrageous? (I don't either, but I'm sure I was bitching about it) Yesterday I filled up at $3.66/gallon. I'm also having a hard time finding a fucking loaf of bread for under $2. When the price of gas goes up, the price of EVERYTHING goes up. The raise you thought you were getting? Sorry - that money had to be moved over to pay for the sudden jump in transportation costs.
Unfortunately, the invasion of an oil-rich nation (that had no WMDs, no ties to terrorism, and posed no immediate threat to our safety) did not help bring the cost of gas down any. In a country whose economic welfare is tethered to the availability of oil, a spike in prices like this simply can't be good for business. In just 6 years, the cost of getting from here to there has more than doubled. And that's all we do in this country - we get from here to there. And from there to here. And sometimes from somewhere to nowhere and back. We are movers. Drivers. Commuters. Travelers. Round, round, get around, we get around.
And nobody walks anywhere anymore (just look at our waistlines). We can't! We all live in the suburbs. What percentage of the American workforce lives within walking distance of work? We are a historical anomoly. Since man first started earning a wage for a hard day's work he has slept no further than a short hike to work. To the farm. To the mine. To the factory. To the shop.
This is a radical change in the way societies live, work, and function - a change afforded us by the availability of cheap oil. And now that we're all so spread out, oil suddenly isn't so cheap anymore. Sadly, we have no choice pay it or move. Gotta get to work, right? Gotta get to the doctor. Gotta get to the store. Gotta visit the family.
Remember the controversial Bush tax cut we got several years ago? The one where the government sent us all checks in the mail? I think I have officially given all of it, and then some, back to the oil companies - who are posting record profits quarter after financial quarter, by the way. Conservative economic advisors in closed-door meetings with oil execs call that "ooze-down economics."
Green is the color of the future, my friends, and the sooner we get there, the better off we'll be. All of us, and in more ways than one. To sustain our modern lifestyles, marked by the freedom to live and work wherever we choose, a luxury to which we have grown so accustomed, we need to find more cost-efficient ways of getting around. Period. And they are right before our eyes. The electric-hybrid car. Solar power. Ethanol. Hydrogen fuel. And many others in development. Other industrialized nations are way ahead of us in exploring breakthrough technologies, but we lag far behind thanks to the self-sustaining oil lobby and the short-sighted interests of those we have trusted to make smart decisions on our behalf. But they have betrayed us, and for this we must rise up and take back the power to shape our collective destiny.
Go ahead and vote with your wallet. In this case, it's also better for your lungs.
We can do this if we can get the politicians married to big oil OUT OF OFFICE. Maybe it's 10% of them. Maybe it's half. Maybe it's all of them. But we have the power to make it happen. Turn off the televised ads pitching the same horseshit this fall and look up the truth on your own. It's out there.
No, it's not going to be easy being green...but it will be a lot cheaper and healthier in the long run.
OCCAM'S KEYS
Here’s a story for your files. A couple of months ago, I joined some friends in Wisconsin for a short camping trip. We drove up on Saturday afternoon, played beanbags and beach volleyball near Castle Rock Lake, and fired up some flame-broiled burgers over an open pit in the rain. It was a relaxing, if wet, break from the breakneck pace of 21st century civilization.
Sunday morning I woke up around 8am, climbed out of my tent, and stumbled into the woods to pee. Everything was completely soaking wet from a night of steady rain. When I finished steaming up a patch of leaves at the base of a pine tree, I meandered back to camp and started packing things down.
I deflated my air mattress, packed up my wet clothes and started loading everything into the back seat of my car. I then set to the task of airing out my rainguard prior to rolling it up with the tent. Everything would need to be dried out once I was back home, but I wanted it to be as dry as possible before stashing it in my car for the journey back. I folded up the tent and stepped on the air pockets, flattening them for the next fold. I looked around at the rest of the site to be sure we weren’t leaving anything behind. Everyone else was busily packing down as well, mildly hungover and relatively quiet.
That’s when my car honked.
Everybody looked up to see who dared break the silence on this dreary Sunday morning. I walked over to my car, which I had been slowly filling with things for the past half hour and saw that the theft-deterrent system was blinking inside. Strange, I thought, since that doesn’t come on unless the car is locked. I looked in the backseat and saw my overnight bag – the bag I routinely pack my keys in when camping. I was suddenly afraid to try the door handle. If it was locked, with the keys inside my bag inside the car, how was I going to get home?
My camp-mates gathered about me as I speculated as to why the car honked.
“Okay – which one of you assclowns has my keys? Very funny, Joke’s over.”
Everyone just started at me vacuously. Not a smile in the bunch. I turned back to the car and tried the handle. It was locked. I frantically ran around the car. They were ALL locked. Why would the keys lock themselves in the car? Did the 2006 Passat come with a safety feature I didn't know about? I knew that if I didn’t open the car door within 30 seconds of remotely unlocking it, it would lock itself. Perhaps I had remotely unlocked it unknowingly, stowed the keys inside the car, and after 30 seconds it had locked itself. Was that even possible, and if so, who was the German engineer behind that bit of brilliance?
It started to rain softly again. No one knew what to do or say. I was on the outside of my car looking in, 10:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning, deep in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin. I couldn’t LEAVE the car here, I thought. I would need to get in somehow. I began writing a very nasty letter to Volkswagen in my head.
I told the others to keep packing down and that I would be back. I started hoofing it up the gravel road to the highway. From there I walked another quarter mile to an intersection where a recreational park station was situated. I walked up the ramp on the side of the trailer, unsure how they were going to help, but in dire need of some. An older woman with orange hair and thick glasses met me at the counter.
“Hi,” I said nervously. “I’m camping a short ways down the road over here and somehow my keys got locked inside of my car. I was wondering if there’s anyone here who would be able to help me get them.”
“Where are you?” she asked sternly.
“Right over that way,” I said, pointing in the direction of my useless automobile. “About a quarter mile across the highway.”
“Across the highway? Oh, we got nothing to do with that.”
“I know – it’s private land. But it’s right over there and I don’t know who else to go to. Isn’t there someone here I could talk to?”
“I don’t know who. Sounds like you need a locksmith.” And with that bit of wisdom she hefted a yellow pages book out from under the counter and dropped it on the glass top between us.
“Can’t the police help me? Maybe we could call them. It’s MY car – I just locked the keys inside.”
“Police ain’t gonna do nothing about that. You need a locksmith.”
“Okay, then. Let’s see.” I nervously rifled through the pages until I found a few numbers. The addresses were all foreign to me, so I asked which one was closest.
“That one there’s about an hour away. But on Sunday morning? Good luck.”
“How about this one?” I asked.
“That’s another 15 minutes past the first one.”
“Which is the closest one here?” I said, spinning the book around so she could give me her best estimate.
“I’d say this one right here – it’s about 35 miles away. But on a Sunday morning? I don’t know.”
“Right. Sunday. Okay. So, is there any chance I can use your phone?” She looked into the back room behind her where her toothless son was gabbing away about paintball efficiency and said, “Sorry. Only got one line.”
I left the trailer and headed back to my car, certain that she could not have been less helpful.
I returned to camp and gave a progress report, which was to say that no progress had been made. I noticed that the others had been kind enough to finish rolling up my tent and rainguard while I had been off searching for help, and I thanked them. They offered me a ham sandwich and asked what I wanted to do. I really had no idea.
I fished my cellphone out of my pocket to see whether it had any battery power left and if I could get a signal. Fortunately, I had a couple of bars and enough strength to access the mobile web via Verizon Wireless’s broadband network. In a couple of minutes I had a Google window open and was looking up Volkswagen dealerships in Wisconsin. They might be able to help me get out of this sticky situation.
Unfortunately, car dealerships are closed on Sunday – so that search was an exercise in futility. Then I remembered that, with my lease, I enjoy emergency roadside assistance 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year through Volkswagen! Of course, the number to call was on a card in the glove compartment, safely stored, very dry, inside the car.
Things were not looking good.
That’s when we resorted to plan B – which was actually plan AAA. A fellow camper and friend mentioned that he had AAA. As a member, he too received emergency roadside assistance – and if he told them he was a passenger in MY car, he heard they would come help us. He dialed them up and explained that we had locked our keys in the car and needed a locksmith. He then described our location to the best of his ability. He was then put on hold for about 15 minutes while the AAA customer service representative tried to hunt down a locksmith willing and able to drive into the middle of no where to break us into my car.
By this time, everyone else was packed up and ready to go. We made ham sandwiches and stood around in a circle eating them. I told them they could leave whenever they wanted and that I would figure something out. I still had my cellphone and credit cards, so I would be okay. They told me they had no intention of abandoning me there, and that we’d figure out something together. Friends rule.
“You did check your pockets, right?” someone asked jokingly. Of course I had. That was the first place I looked. In fact, I’d been checking my pockets every 2 minutes since the car had locked itself to be sure I didn’t have them. I panicked at the thought of having gone through all of this only to discover they were in my pocket. So I dug around again and assured everyone they were not. They were in my overnight bag in the car, I said. My EVIL car, with a bad temper and a mind of its own. I actually wondered how safe it was to be standing there, half expecting it would hear us talking about it, rev up the engine, and start mowing us down two at a time in the clearing.
AAA finally returned to the line to inform us that a truck was on its way. I was saved! We cleaned up and loaded the remaining gear into the cars, save my tent and rainguard, and the bean bag boards – which we decided we would play out on the highway until the tow truck arrived. That way he’d know where to turn and find us.
The locksmith showed up a half hour later in a tow truck and it appeared very possible that he had just put himself to bed (or more likely a couch) when AAA had called him. This mattered not to us, so long as he would be able to help me rescue the keys my car was holding hostage.
He began with some very basic locksmith tools, sliding metal rods inside the passenger doorframe to unlock the door manually. Discovering that the Passat has no manual door locks, he abandoned this strategy in favor of a bigger metal rod – this one designed to force the door handle open from the inside. When this rod didn’t work, we all started fidgeting nervously. My car clearly had no intention of giving up its contents without a fight. Made me feel safer about leaving things in it in the future – but pretty fucking helpless here.
The locksmith took his bass fishing baseball cap off, scratched his greasy hair, and stumbled back to his truck. After several minutes of digging around under the seats, he emerged with a third tool set. This one resembled a blood pressure arm band and squeeze ball attached to a heating pad. He used the metal rods to jimmy the door open about a half-inch, then slid the pad inside. He pumped and pumped the pad using the squeeze ball until it inflated, widening the doorjamb crevasse. He then inserted another metal rod and this time was able to pull the door handle open.
The door swung out and the Passat started beeping noisily, rhythmically, over and over again. It was not happy. We hit the automatic locks to unlock the other doors, but the automatic locks were disabled. So I leaned across and pushed open the driver side door, then reached around and pushed open the doors to the back seat. At once, we all entered the vehicle in search of the missing keys. Beep. Beep. Beep. I grabbed my bag and reached inside the pocket to pull them out. Beep.
The keys were not there. Beep.
I emptied the contents of the bag out on the wet ground as the car continued beeping loudly. I checked my pockets again. I knew they were in that car. Beep. Beep. Beep. The locksmith looked at me, then turned and spit into the woods.
“Are they in the glove box?” someone asked.
“The trunk?” Beep.
“Under the seat?” Beep.
“The center console?” Beep.
We tore through the contents of the car. Beep. Beep. We searched the ground around the car. We opened the trunk. Fished around under the seats. Unloaded all of the gear I’d stashed in the back seat until finally, we realized where they were. Beep. Beep.
At once, we all turned our heads away from the car and looked back at the smoldering campfire. Beep. Beep. Next to it on the ground was a rolled up tent and rainguard. We all raced over in a mad dash to make the beeping stop. Unfolding the tent, we dug around inside until we felt the familiar metal of a set of keys. They’d been hanging in one of the mesh pockets inside the tent and I’d forgotten to take them out before taking the tent down.
Somehow, as I had been stamping the air out of the tent, I had inadvertently hit the “lock” button on my remote car lock. The car had beeped at me to let me know I had locked it, but instead of putting two and two together, I chose to assume that the car was possessed by a poltergeist who was very unhappy with the grade of fuel I had been putting in it.
We hit the alarm button on the remote key lock and the car stopped beeping. The locksmith was already on his way back up the gravel path to his tow truck, surely cursing the idiot campers from Illinois who do this to him at least once a year. I stood in the middle of a collapsed, wet tent holding my keys in my hand – not my proudest moment. My car looked at me sadly from across the clearing, all of its doors, trunk, glove, and console wide open. It had been violated unnecessarily.
I sheepishly apologized for the misadventure and was forgiven in a chorus of laughter. This was not something I would live down, I thought. I piled all of my crap back into the car and set off for the long, drive back – upon which I decided to fill ‘er up with Premium. I also decided to program Volkswagen road assistance into my cellphone in the event I should ever actually lock my keys in my car.
All things being equal, the simplest explanation is usally the correct one.
Oh yeah... and I am an idiot.
Sunday morning I woke up around 8am, climbed out of my tent, and stumbled into the woods to pee. Everything was completely soaking wet from a night of steady rain. When I finished steaming up a patch of leaves at the base of a pine tree, I meandered back to camp and started packing things down.
I deflated my air mattress, packed up my wet clothes and started loading everything into the back seat of my car. I then set to the task of airing out my rainguard prior to rolling it up with the tent. Everything would need to be dried out once I was back home, but I wanted it to be as dry as possible before stashing it in my car for the journey back. I folded up the tent and stepped on the air pockets, flattening them for the next fold. I looked around at the rest of the site to be sure we weren’t leaving anything behind. Everyone else was busily packing down as well, mildly hungover and relatively quiet.
That’s when my car honked.
Everybody looked up to see who dared break the silence on this dreary Sunday morning. I walked over to my car, which I had been slowly filling with things for the past half hour and saw that the theft-deterrent system was blinking inside. Strange, I thought, since that doesn’t come on unless the car is locked. I looked in the backseat and saw my overnight bag – the bag I routinely pack my keys in when camping. I was suddenly afraid to try the door handle. If it was locked, with the keys inside my bag inside the car, how was I going to get home?
My camp-mates gathered about me as I speculated as to why the car honked.
“Okay – which one of you assclowns has my keys? Very funny, Joke’s over.”
Everyone just started at me vacuously. Not a smile in the bunch. I turned back to the car and tried the handle. It was locked. I frantically ran around the car. They were ALL locked. Why would the keys lock themselves in the car? Did the 2006 Passat come with a safety feature I didn't know about? I knew that if I didn’t open the car door within 30 seconds of remotely unlocking it, it would lock itself. Perhaps I had remotely unlocked it unknowingly, stowed the keys inside the car, and after 30 seconds it had locked itself. Was that even possible, and if so, who was the German engineer behind that bit of brilliance?
It started to rain softly again. No one knew what to do or say. I was on the outside of my car looking in, 10:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning, deep in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin. I couldn’t LEAVE the car here, I thought. I would need to get in somehow. I began writing a very nasty letter to Volkswagen in my head.
I told the others to keep packing down and that I would be back. I started hoofing it up the gravel road to the highway. From there I walked another quarter mile to an intersection where a recreational park station was situated. I walked up the ramp on the side of the trailer, unsure how they were going to help, but in dire need of some. An older woman with orange hair and thick glasses met me at the counter.
“Hi,” I said nervously. “I’m camping a short ways down the road over here and somehow my keys got locked inside of my car. I was wondering if there’s anyone here who would be able to help me get them.”
“Where are you?” she asked sternly.
“Right over that way,” I said, pointing in the direction of my useless automobile. “About a quarter mile across the highway.”
“Across the highway? Oh, we got nothing to do with that.”
“I know – it’s private land. But it’s right over there and I don’t know who else to go to. Isn’t there someone here I could talk to?”
“I don’t know who. Sounds like you need a locksmith.” And with that bit of wisdom she hefted a yellow pages book out from under the counter and dropped it on the glass top between us.
“Can’t the police help me? Maybe we could call them. It’s MY car – I just locked the keys inside.”
“Police ain’t gonna do nothing about that. You need a locksmith.”
“Okay, then. Let’s see.” I nervously rifled through the pages until I found a few numbers. The addresses were all foreign to me, so I asked which one was closest.
“That one there’s about an hour away. But on Sunday morning? Good luck.”
“How about this one?” I asked.
“That’s another 15 minutes past the first one.”
“Which is the closest one here?” I said, spinning the book around so she could give me her best estimate.
“I’d say this one right here – it’s about 35 miles away. But on a Sunday morning? I don’t know.”
“Right. Sunday. Okay. So, is there any chance I can use your phone?” She looked into the back room behind her where her toothless son was gabbing away about paintball efficiency and said, “Sorry. Only got one line.”
I left the trailer and headed back to my car, certain that she could not have been less helpful.
I returned to camp and gave a progress report, which was to say that no progress had been made. I noticed that the others had been kind enough to finish rolling up my tent and rainguard while I had been off searching for help, and I thanked them. They offered me a ham sandwich and asked what I wanted to do. I really had no idea.
I fished my cellphone out of my pocket to see whether it had any battery power left and if I could get a signal. Fortunately, I had a couple of bars and enough strength to access the mobile web via Verizon Wireless’s broadband network. In a couple of minutes I had a Google window open and was looking up Volkswagen dealerships in Wisconsin. They might be able to help me get out of this sticky situation.
Unfortunately, car dealerships are closed on Sunday – so that search was an exercise in futility. Then I remembered that, with my lease, I enjoy emergency roadside assistance 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year through Volkswagen! Of course, the number to call was on a card in the glove compartment, safely stored, very dry, inside the car.
Things were not looking good.
That’s when we resorted to plan B – which was actually plan AAA. A fellow camper and friend mentioned that he had AAA. As a member, he too received emergency roadside assistance – and if he told them he was a passenger in MY car, he heard they would come help us. He dialed them up and explained that we had locked our keys in the car and needed a locksmith. He then described our location to the best of his ability. He was then put on hold for about 15 minutes while the AAA customer service representative tried to hunt down a locksmith willing and able to drive into the middle of no where to break us into my car.
By this time, everyone else was packed up and ready to go. We made ham sandwiches and stood around in a circle eating them. I told them they could leave whenever they wanted and that I would figure something out. I still had my cellphone and credit cards, so I would be okay. They told me they had no intention of abandoning me there, and that we’d figure out something together. Friends rule.
“You did check your pockets, right?” someone asked jokingly. Of course I had. That was the first place I looked. In fact, I’d been checking my pockets every 2 minutes since the car had locked itself to be sure I didn’t have them. I panicked at the thought of having gone through all of this only to discover they were in my pocket. So I dug around again and assured everyone they were not. They were in my overnight bag in the car, I said. My EVIL car, with a bad temper and a mind of its own. I actually wondered how safe it was to be standing there, half expecting it would hear us talking about it, rev up the engine, and start mowing us down two at a time in the clearing.
AAA finally returned to the line to inform us that a truck was on its way. I was saved! We cleaned up and loaded the remaining gear into the cars, save my tent and rainguard, and the bean bag boards – which we decided we would play out on the highway until the tow truck arrived. That way he’d know where to turn and find us.
The locksmith showed up a half hour later in a tow truck and it appeared very possible that he had just put himself to bed (or more likely a couch) when AAA had called him. This mattered not to us, so long as he would be able to help me rescue the keys my car was holding hostage.
He began with some very basic locksmith tools, sliding metal rods inside the passenger doorframe to unlock the door manually. Discovering that the Passat has no manual door locks, he abandoned this strategy in favor of a bigger metal rod – this one designed to force the door handle open from the inside. When this rod didn’t work, we all started fidgeting nervously. My car clearly had no intention of giving up its contents without a fight. Made me feel safer about leaving things in it in the future – but pretty fucking helpless here.
The locksmith took his bass fishing baseball cap off, scratched his greasy hair, and stumbled back to his truck. After several minutes of digging around under the seats, he emerged with a third tool set. This one resembled a blood pressure arm band and squeeze ball attached to a heating pad. He used the metal rods to jimmy the door open about a half-inch, then slid the pad inside. He pumped and pumped the pad using the squeeze ball until it inflated, widening the doorjamb crevasse. He then inserted another metal rod and this time was able to pull the door handle open.
The door swung out and the Passat started beeping noisily, rhythmically, over and over again. It was not happy. We hit the automatic locks to unlock the other doors, but the automatic locks were disabled. So I leaned across and pushed open the driver side door, then reached around and pushed open the doors to the back seat. At once, we all entered the vehicle in search of the missing keys. Beep. Beep. Beep. I grabbed my bag and reached inside the pocket to pull them out. Beep.
The keys were not there. Beep.
I emptied the contents of the bag out on the wet ground as the car continued beeping loudly. I checked my pockets again. I knew they were in that car. Beep. Beep. Beep. The locksmith looked at me, then turned and spit into the woods.
“Are they in the glove box?” someone asked.
“The trunk?” Beep.
“Under the seat?” Beep.
“The center console?” Beep.
We tore through the contents of the car. Beep. Beep. We searched the ground around the car. We opened the trunk. Fished around under the seats. Unloaded all of the gear I’d stashed in the back seat until finally, we realized where they were. Beep. Beep.
At once, we all turned our heads away from the car and looked back at the smoldering campfire. Beep. Beep. Next to it on the ground was a rolled up tent and rainguard. We all raced over in a mad dash to make the beeping stop. Unfolding the tent, we dug around inside until we felt the familiar metal of a set of keys. They’d been hanging in one of the mesh pockets inside the tent and I’d forgotten to take them out before taking the tent down.
Somehow, as I had been stamping the air out of the tent, I had inadvertently hit the “lock” button on my remote car lock. The car had beeped at me to let me know I had locked it, but instead of putting two and two together, I chose to assume that the car was possessed by a poltergeist who was very unhappy with the grade of fuel I had been putting in it.
We hit the alarm button on the remote key lock and the car stopped beeping. The locksmith was already on his way back up the gravel path to his tow truck, surely cursing the idiot campers from Illinois who do this to him at least once a year. I stood in the middle of a collapsed, wet tent holding my keys in my hand – not my proudest moment. My car looked at me sadly from across the clearing, all of its doors, trunk, glove, and console wide open. It had been violated unnecessarily.
I sheepishly apologized for the misadventure and was forgiven in a chorus of laughter. This was not something I would live down, I thought. I piled all of my crap back into the car and set off for the long, drive back – upon which I decided to fill ‘er up with Premium. I also decided to program Volkswagen road assistance into my cellphone in the event I should ever actually lock my keys in my car.
All things being equal, the simplest explanation is usally the correct one.
Oh yeah... and I am an idiot.
Monday, August 28, 2006
INSTALLING SOME HIGH-FIBER OPTICS
Are people always asking you why you're so damn happy all the time?
Me neither.
What's the deal with that? Why aren't more people more happy? We know what makes us happy, don't we? And we know what makes us unhappy, right? So why are so many people still so unhappy so much of the time? I've got a theory on this, and I'm putting it to the test as we speak.
One word: FIBER
That's right. Fiber is the secret to happiness. I'm not kidding. As you know, there are few things in life as satsifying as a steady, seamless evacuation. You know what I'm talking about. The kind you can feel has been coming on for awhile, but you hold off until just the right moment to let it go. Like baking bread, a good loaf of crap is a delicate thing. Pull the trigger too early and you've got a soft, doughy mess. Let it bake too long and it turns hard and black like coal. The timing of a fantastic loaf of crap is essential - but so are the ingredients.
Fiber is like yeast. It makes sure your loaves are rising properly. Make sure you get enough and things will move along effortlessly. Get too little and you end up with a colon full of flatbread. I've been noticing recently that whenever I'm in a sour mood, it's almost always because I'm constipated. Additionally, I always feel great after a good crap. ALWAYS. So if regularity enhances mood, then the goal would be to promote regularity. And this is done primarily through diet. In other words, consume more fiber!
Here's something I didn't realize until I went on a serious fiber-hunting mission. Most mass-producted commercial breads don't contain a significant amount of fiber! And here I grew up thinking fiber came from the bread/grains/cereal portion of the food pyramid. I was turning over plastic loaves at the grocery store the other day and was shocked to find that even most of the WHEAT breads had 1g of fiber or less per serving. That's essentially nothing. Why the hell even bother eating it?
According to nutritionists, 2 grams of fiber per serving is the minimum amount of fiber content that has any meaning at all to your intestinal tract. And with everything so processed these days, it's not easy to find that kind of fiber content - believe me. You have to eat things like fruits and vegetables (I force myself now), nuts (certain nuts), and baked beans (which have the side benefit of producing intestinal gas, which I LOVE letting go).
And cereal? I thought for sure cereal would be loaded with fiber. Nope. Most cereal is actually loaded with sugar and contains very little fiber. But if you look at enough box panels, you can find a few with 2, 3, 4 or more grams of fiber per serving. That's the shit you're looking for, pardon the expression, and is usually found on the top shelf above all the colorful boxes strategically placed at eye level for kids.
Friends, I can't tell you what the addition of a little fiber has done for my mood. I'm loose as a goose - and we've all seen what geese can do to a black-top parking lot.
Example? Here's one. I actually karaoked Friday night for the first time in 13 years! I'm usually the uptight chump in the corner who refuses to make an ass out of himself. Not Friday. Assdom beckoned and I heeded the call! I belted out an up tempo rendition of Mack the Knife that brought the entire house down. No joke. I couldn't believe it. My Terryoake act was met with applause, whistles, and high fives as I stepped off the stage - and not because I had turned it into a cabaret strip tease act. Complete strangers were actually congratulating me on a job well done.
Fiber.
Check your labels. Look for the whole grain breads and cereals with 2g of fiber or more per serving. Load up on nuts and beans. And eat your veggies!
Your lower GI will thank me.
Me neither.
What's the deal with that? Why aren't more people more happy? We know what makes us happy, don't we? And we know what makes us unhappy, right? So why are so many people still so unhappy so much of the time? I've got a theory on this, and I'm putting it to the test as we speak.
One word: FIBER
That's right. Fiber is the secret to happiness. I'm not kidding. As you know, there are few things in life as satsifying as a steady, seamless evacuation. You know what I'm talking about. The kind you can feel has been coming on for awhile, but you hold off until just the right moment to let it go. Like baking bread, a good loaf of crap is a delicate thing. Pull the trigger too early and you've got a soft, doughy mess. Let it bake too long and it turns hard and black like coal. The timing of a fantastic loaf of crap is essential - but so are the ingredients.
Fiber is like yeast. It makes sure your loaves are rising properly. Make sure you get enough and things will move along effortlessly. Get too little and you end up with a colon full of flatbread. I've been noticing recently that whenever I'm in a sour mood, it's almost always because I'm constipated. Additionally, I always feel great after a good crap. ALWAYS. So if regularity enhances mood, then the goal would be to promote regularity. And this is done primarily through diet. In other words, consume more fiber!
Here's something I didn't realize until I went on a serious fiber-hunting mission. Most mass-producted commercial breads don't contain a significant amount of fiber! And here I grew up thinking fiber came from the bread/grains/cereal portion of the food pyramid. I was turning over plastic loaves at the grocery store the other day and was shocked to find that even most of the WHEAT breads had 1g of fiber or less per serving. That's essentially nothing. Why the hell even bother eating it?
According to nutritionists, 2 grams of fiber per serving is the minimum amount of fiber content that has any meaning at all to your intestinal tract. And with everything so processed these days, it's not easy to find that kind of fiber content - believe me. You have to eat things like fruits and vegetables (I force myself now), nuts (certain nuts), and baked beans (which have the side benefit of producing intestinal gas, which I LOVE letting go). And cereal? I thought for sure cereal would be loaded with fiber. Nope. Most cereal is actually loaded with sugar and contains very little fiber. But if you look at enough box panels, you can find a few with 2, 3, 4 or more grams of fiber per serving. That's the shit you're looking for, pardon the expression, and is usually found on the top shelf above all the colorful boxes strategically placed at eye level for kids.
Friends, I can't tell you what the addition of a little fiber has done for my mood. I'm loose as a goose - and we've all seen what geese can do to a black-top parking lot.
Example? Here's one. I actually karaoked Friday night for the first time in 13 years! I'm usually the uptight chump in the corner who refuses to make an ass out of himself. Not Friday. Assdom beckoned and I heeded the call! I belted out an up tempo rendition of Mack the Knife that brought the entire house down. No joke. I couldn't believe it. My Terryoake act was met with applause, whistles, and high fives as I stepped off the stage - and not because I had turned it into a cabaret strip tease act. Complete strangers were actually congratulating me on a job well done.
Fiber.
Check your labels. Look for the whole grain breads and cereals with 2g of fiber or more per serving. Load up on nuts and beans. And eat your veggies!
Your lower GI will thank me.
Friday, August 25, 2006
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY
to me!
Yeah, that's right. Old as the hills. Moving on in age. Entering the twilight of my youth. Actually, did that about a decade ago.
Last Thursday I celebrated another spin around our glorious sun with a trip to Six Flags Great America. Birthday celebrations are really for the kids, so I figured why not spend mine pretending I still am one? I had a blast whipping around on roller coasters and other rides, eating junk food, and playing carnival games. I even pouted a little bit when it was time to leave, stamping my foot, crossing my arms, and screaming, "No! I'm not leaving and you can't make me."
After being removed by security, I fell asleep in the car on the way home and had to be carried into the house.
Okay - so that's not quite how it went. But I did have a great time and highly recommend you connect with your inner child next time you notice the digits turning over. In the week since I've been jamming that old Cracker tune "Happy Birthday to Me" over and over again in my car. Man, were those guys fucked up or what?
Love the lyrics:
I was having a good sleep
in my car
In the...parking lot of the
Showboat Casino hotel
I say, "I remember you
you drive like a PTA mother"
You brought me draft beer
in a plastic cup
I'm feeling thankful
for the small things...today
I'm feeling thankful
for the small things...today
Happy...Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you
Happy...Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah
I'm feeling thankful
for the small things...today
I'm feeling thankful
for the small things...today
I remember you
I crashed your wedding
With some...orange crepe paper
and some Halloween candy
And sometimes
I wish I were Catholic
I don't know why
I guess I'm happy to see your face
at a time like this
Happy...Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah
Happy...Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah
Happy Birthday, baby, to me
Happy Birthday, to me
Happy Birthday, to me
Happy Birthday, to me
****
That shit kills me every time.
Anyhow, I'm feeling thankful for the small things today. For example, the little hair I still have left on my head. My little sister. The little sized cans of Coke they're making now that are the perfect serving size for me. Little By Little, that kick ass Oasis tune. And, of course, the little bit of time you share with me every once in a while when you are bored out of your skull and wondering what that silly monkey has typed up recently.
Just some nonsense about a penis pump and a photograph of a roving horde of naked people. You know - the usual.
Yeah, that's right. Old as the hills. Moving on in age. Entering the twilight of my youth. Actually, did that about a decade ago.
Last Thursday I celebrated another spin around our glorious sun with a trip to Six Flags Great America. Birthday celebrations are really for the kids, so I figured why not spend mine pretending I still am one? I had a blast whipping around on roller coasters and other rides, eating junk food, and playing carnival games. I even pouted a little bit when it was time to leave, stamping my foot, crossing my arms, and screaming, "No! I'm not leaving and you can't make me."
After being removed by security, I fell asleep in the car on the way home and had to be carried into the house.
Okay - so that's not quite how it went. But I did have a great time and highly recommend you connect with your inner child next time you notice the digits turning over. In the week since I've been jamming that old Cracker tune "Happy Birthday to Me" over and over again in my car. Man, were those guys fucked up or what?
Love the lyrics:
I was having a good sleep
in my car
In the...parking lot of the
Showboat Casino hotel
I say, "I remember you
you drive like a PTA mother"
You brought me draft beer
in a plastic cup
I'm feeling thankful
for the small things...today
I'm feeling thankful
for the small things...today
Happy...Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you
Happy...Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah
I'm feeling thankful
for the small things...today
I'm feeling thankful
for the small things...today
I remember you
I crashed your wedding
With some...orange crepe paper
and some Halloween candy
And sometimes
I wish I were Catholic
I don't know why
I guess I'm happy to see your face
at a time like this
Happy...Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah
Happy...Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah
Happy Birthday, baby, to me
Happy Birthday, to me
Happy Birthday, to me
Happy Birthday, to me
****
That shit kills me every time.
Anyhow, I'm feeling thankful for the small things today. For example, the little hair I still have left on my head. My little sister. The little sized cans of Coke they're making now that are the perfect serving size for me. Little By Little, that kick ass Oasis tune. And, of course, the little bit of time you share with me every once in a while when you are bored out of your skull and wondering what that silly monkey has typed up recently.
Just some nonsense about a penis pump and a photograph of a roving horde of naked people. You know - the usual.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
THE EXTRA FRIENDLY SKIES
Here is the scene from just outside of Washington Dulles International Airport in Virginia where Federal officials have instituted its controversial new pre-flight screening policy. Passengers can be seen abandoning their carry-on luggage so that it can be inspected by police dogs while spot cavity searches are performed. A spokesperson for the Department of Homeland Security said the skies will be much safer when all airports conform to this strict new policy, and denied speculation that the added inconvenience of stripping completely naked will discourage people from flying."It's been a pretty smooth transition so far. A few erections here and there caused a stir initially, but for the most part everything has gone according to plan. And no terrorist incidents, which is always the most important thing."
I AM 1,073,578,660 SECONDS OLD!
Wow. I had no idea. That's got to be wrong because I've been counting out loud for two days now and I passed that number a couple hours ago.
Check out this kick ass birthday calendar site. It has all kinds of information about the day and year you were born.
It even listed my birth tree. Yeah - a fucking tree! I had no idea I had a birth tree. It's like being adopted and finding out who your real parents were. Actually, it's probably nothing like that. But it was exciting. Check it out for yourself.
I am a Leo, born on a Thursday, and my life path number is an 8. I have no idea what that means, but I really get along with 6's apparently. Oh yeah, and then there's my tree.
Cedar, the Confidence. Of rare beauty, knows how to adapt, likes luxury, of good health not in the least shy, tends to look down on others, self-confident, determined, impatient, wants to impress others, many talents, industrious, healthy, optimism, waiting for the one true love, able to make quick decisions.
Check out this kick ass birthday calendar site. It has all kinds of information about the day and year you were born.
It even listed my birth tree. Yeah - a fucking tree! I had no idea I had a birth tree. It's like being adopted and finding out who your real parents were. Actually, it's probably nothing like that. But it was exciting. Check it out for yourself.
I am a Leo, born on a Thursday, and my life path number is an 8. I have no idea what that means, but I really get along with 6's apparently. Oh yeah, and then there's my tree.
Cedar, the Confidence. Of rare beauty, knows how to adapt, likes luxury, of good health not in the least shy, tends to look down on others, self-confident, determined, impatient, wants to impress others, many talents, industrious, healthy, optimism, waiting for the one true love, able to make quick decisions.
CHUMPS WITH PUMPS
You're going to love this one.
Mardin Amin was arrested at Chicago's O'Hare Airport after joking that bag inspectors had discovered a "bomb" in his luggage. The object in question turned out to be a penis pump. It's not mine, baby - I swear!
According to news sources, a female security guard was rifling through his things when she identified the foreign, suspect object. She asked Mardin what it was and claims he told her it was "a bomb." So she asked him again to identify the object and, again, he explained that it was a bomb. Mardin, who was traveling with his mother to Turkey, was promptly arrested and now faces prison time. Like most men would, Mardin chose to get arrested for plotting a terrorist attack rather than admit to owning a penis pump. Really, baby - it's not my bag!
And all in front of his poor mother!
The defense's side of the story is a little different. They argue that Mardin had actually whispered "a pump," under his breath so as not to draw attention to the fact that his penis was in training. When asked a second time, he again said it was "a pump," but the security guard mistook "a pump" for "a bomb" and placed him in custody. I must admit that this version of the story does sound more plausible than the first one. Why couldn't he have just explained to her what it was for?
"It is a device used for blowing things up."
On second thought...
I just want to know why he needed to pack it in his carry-on bag. Every time I try to use mine mid-flight the attendants tell me to put it away.
Mardin Amin was arrested at Chicago's O'Hare Airport after joking that bag inspectors had discovered a "bomb" in his luggage. The object in question turned out to be a penis pump. It's not mine, baby - I swear!
According to news sources, a female security guard was rifling through his things when she identified the foreign, suspect object. She asked Mardin what it was and claims he told her it was "a bomb." So she asked him again to identify the object and, again, he explained that it was a bomb. Mardin, who was traveling with his mother to Turkey, was promptly arrested and now faces prison time. Like most men would, Mardin chose to get arrested for plotting a terrorist attack rather than admit to owning a penis pump. Really, baby - it's not my bag!And all in front of his poor mother!
The defense's side of the story is a little different. They argue that Mardin had actually whispered "a pump," under his breath so as not to draw attention to the fact that his penis was in training. When asked a second time, he again said it was "a pump," but the security guard mistook "a pump" for "a bomb" and placed him in custody. I must admit that this version of the story does sound more plausible than the first one. Why couldn't he have just explained to her what it was for?
"It is a device used for blowing things up."
On second thought...
I just want to know why he needed to pack it in his carry-on bag. Every time I try to use mine mid-flight the attendants tell me to put it away.
DENIED!
Pluto was stripped of its planet status today, rendering all science books written since 1918 obsolete. Can you believe that?
One day you're a planet, the next day you're not. Kind of like Star Jones.
Let's hope this deplanetization stops here, because Earth could be next! Then what will we call ourselves? "Planet" Earth would no longer fit. It would be something like Orbiting Chunk of Matter Earth. Doesn't have quite the same ring.
Fellow Earlthlings, fret not - for your status as planetary dwellars has been secured. After all, we're the ones calling the shots. We can kick Jupiter, the largest of them all, right out of the Planet Club if we want to - and they couldn't do anything about it! Hell yeah! Scary, but I imagine this is what Dick Cheney sounds like behind closed doors.
Totally off topic, I have verified for you that Paul Wolfowitz is NOT the antichrist. My grandmother once declared this and I was so moved by her stoic prescience I had to look into the matter. Turns out the antichrist will be young and dashing, without children, and hail from Europe. So Paul is off the hook.
One day you're a planet, the next day you're not. Kind of like Star Jones.
Let's hope this deplanetization stops here, because Earth could be next! Then what will we call ourselves? "Planet" Earth would no longer fit. It would be something like Orbiting Chunk of Matter Earth. Doesn't have quite the same ring.
Fellow Earlthlings, fret not - for your status as planetary dwellars has been secured. After all, we're the ones calling the shots. We can kick Jupiter, the largest of them all, right out of the Planet Club if we want to - and they couldn't do anything about it! Hell yeah! Scary, but I imagine this is what Dick Cheney sounds like behind closed doors.
Totally off topic, I have verified for you that Paul Wolfowitz is NOT the antichrist. My grandmother once declared this and I was so moved by her stoic prescience I had to look into the matter. Turns out the antichrist will be young and dashing, without children, and hail from Europe. So Paul is off the hook.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
IT JUST DAWNED ON ME
No one's ever mistaken me for a genius.
They've actually been right every time!
They've actually been right every time!
SURVIVOR MEETS THE AMAZING RACE?
Oh Mylanta! Have you seen what my favorite television show is doing this season??? They've completely lost their fucking minds.
Survivor is planning a new "twist" to Season 13, set in the Cook Islands (scheduled to premiere on September 14th), and it's a controversial one. They're dividing up the tribes by race.
For the first time, 20 castaways will be divided up into 4 teams by ethnic background. There will be the White team, the African-American team, the Hispanic team, and the Asian American team. Is anyone else cringing at the discomfort this is likely to create? I can't imagine how this is going to unfold, but it can't be good. Can it?
I know this may sound like another one of my far-fetched brainchildren taken to absurd heights, but I assure you the report is true. It was announced on this morning's Early Show and the controversial concept has already got people talking. As a series-long fan of the show, I'll likely watch out of unwavering loyalty, but I must admit I have my reservations. The entire stunt seems like a cheap way to create tension, drama, and - of course - ratings, at the potential expense of racial harmony. But Producer Mark Burnett is a reality programming wizard, so perhaps I ought to give him the benefit of the doubt until I've seen how this touchy twist is handled. I just can't help but have questions.
Are viewers supposed to be "rooting" for their race? Are we supposed to be analyzing the truths and misconceptions behind racial stereotypes? And how are we to view this objectively, denying our many prejudices? It feels awkard to even think about.
Interestingly, they chose not to have an Arab/Muslim American team. We can only imagine the politically incorrect ways producers might have envisioned that playing out. Suicide drownings. Jungle Jihad. Booby-trapped immunity challenges. A deadly "merge." Better we stick to races we can SAFELY stereotype in today's delicate political climate.
I think the key here, as is the case in most reality shows, will be in the editing. How will they cram three days of footage into 50 minutes? Past contestants have complained they were unfairly portrayed by selective editing. What will they choose to show us THIS season? What exactly are they hoping will be revealed? That we're all really the same when facing the elements? Or that the stereotypes are true? Let me tackle the controversy head on by establishing some of those now.
The White team: This is the control group by which to measure the other groups: plenty of in-fighting, lying, and ego clashes.
The African-American team: Fares poorly in water challenges, quicker and stronger in other challenges, lazy around camp
The Hispanic team: Super hard-working, tight-knit group, will have the nicest looking camp, lacks leadership
The Asian-American team: Exceptional problem-solving skills, proud, hard-working, but can't steer the damn raft for shit
These lists, which I offer in jest, could go on and on given all of the racial stereotypes prevalent in society today. Is this season's "twist" meant to expose them, or crush them underfoot?
We'll all know soon enough - when the tribe has spoken...
Survivor is planning a new "twist" to Season 13, set in the Cook Islands (scheduled to premiere on September 14th), and it's a controversial one. They're dividing up the tribes by race.
For the first time, 20 castaways will be divided up into 4 teams by ethnic background. There will be the White team, the African-American team, the Hispanic team, and the Asian American team. Is anyone else cringing at the discomfort this is likely to create? I can't imagine how this is going to unfold, but it can't be good. Can it?
I know this may sound like another one of my far-fetched brainchildren taken to absurd heights, but I assure you the report is true. It was announced on this morning's Early Show and the controversial concept has already got people talking. As a series-long fan of the show, I'll likely watch out of unwavering loyalty, but I must admit I have my reservations. The entire stunt seems like a cheap way to create tension, drama, and - of course - ratings, at the potential expense of racial harmony. But Producer Mark Burnett is a reality programming wizard, so perhaps I ought to give him the benefit of the doubt until I've seen how this touchy twist is handled. I just can't help but have questions.
Are viewers supposed to be "rooting" for their race? Are we supposed to be analyzing the truths and misconceptions behind racial stereotypes? And how are we to view this objectively, denying our many prejudices? It feels awkard to even think about.
Interestingly, they chose not to have an Arab/Muslim American team. We can only imagine the politically incorrect ways producers might have envisioned that playing out. Suicide drownings. Jungle Jihad. Booby-trapped immunity challenges. A deadly "merge." Better we stick to races we can SAFELY stereotype in today's delicate political climate.
I think the key here, as is the case in most reality shows, will be in the editing. How will they cram three days of footage into 50 minutes? Past contestants have complained they were unfairly portrayed by selective editing. What will they choose to show us THIS season? What exactly are they hoping will be revealed? That we're all really the same when facing the elements? Or that the stereotypes are true? Let me tackle the controversy head on by establishing some of those now.
The White team: This is the control group by which to measure the other groups: plenty of in-fighting, lying, and ego clashes.
The African-American team: Fares poorly in water challenges, quicker and stronger in other challenges, lazy around camp
The Hispanic team: Super hard-working, tight-knit group, will have the nicest looking camp, lacks leadership
The Asian-American team: Exceptional problem-solving skills, proud, hard-working, but can't steer the damn raft for shit
These lists, which I offer in jest, could go on and on given all of the racial stereotypes prevalent in society today. Is this season's "twist" meant to expose them, or crush them underfoot?
We'll all know soon enough - when the tribe has spoken...
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
COCKTALE ANYONE?
A businessman in India admitted himself to a New Delhi hospital this week to have his penis removed. One of them, anyhow.
The “gifted” 24-year-old reportedly had an extremely rare medical condition called diphallus, or penile duplication. What made his case even harder to swallow, pardon the visual, was the fact that both of his members were, ahem, sexually active. In most cases of diphallus, as I am sure you are well aware, one of the limbs is for decoration only. But apparently this guy always delivered a double shipment of wood, likely to the surprise and exasperation of a very confused partner.
According to reports, he wanted to get married and have a “normal” sex life, hence his cutback in the cock department. There are only around 100 reported cases of diphallus in the world, making it extremely rare. It is known to occur among one in around 5.5 million men. So this guy is literally one a million…or five million, as it happens.
And for some reason I can’t help but think of the future this guy could have had in porn, starting with his own line of films:
Doublefucker Productions
Featuring:
Two For the Honey
Linkin’ Logjam
Double Sixes
Dueling Handjobs
Twice as Hard
Cock & Awe
Wonder Twins
Two the Hard Way
Salami Sandwich
The Daily Double
The DoublePecker
Johnson & Johnson
The “gifted” 24-year-old reportedly had an extremely rare medical condition called diphallus, or penile duplication. What made his case even harder to swallow, pardon the visual, was the fact that both of his members were, ahem, sexually active. In most cases of diphallus, as I am sure you are well aware, one of the limbs is for decoration only. But apparently this guy always delivered a double shipment of wood, likely to the surprise and exasperation of a very confused partner.
According to reports, he wanted to get married and have a “normal” sex life, hence his cutback in the cock department. There are only around 100 reported cases of diphallus in the world, making it extremely rare. It is known to occur among one in around 5.5 million men. So this guy is literally one a million…or five million, as it happens.
And for some reason I can’t help but think of the future this guy could have had in porn, starting with his own line of films:
Doublefucker Productions
Featuring:
Two For the Honey
Linkin’ Logjam
Double Sixes
Dueling Handjobs
Twice as Hard
Cock & Awe
Wonder Twins
Two the Hard Way
Salami Sandwich
The Daily Double
The DoublePecker
Johnson & Johnson
Monday, August 21, 2006
PLACEBO AFFECTIONS
Researchers of the placebo effect have been looking into the mysterious power of positive thinking. It turns out that belief actually alters brain chemistry, enabling patients who THINK they are receiving medical treatment to get better, even if they are taking little more than a sugar pill. Another way of looking at it: you're not really sick until you believe you are.
People who look on the bright side tend to be healthier and live longer than their pessimistic counter parts. Is it because healthier people tend to be happier, or because keeping a positive frame of mind staves off illness and depression?
Recent studies have revealed that anticipation of relief from a placebo can be enough to improve someone's condition. I find it curious that a society so obsessed with pharmaceutical answers doesn't really need drugs at all. At least not in the capacity that we think we do. Certainly, some drugs are able to do what they say they do - but at what cost? I tend to error on the side of Tom Cruise here (which pretty much makes me insane, I know)...drugs in many cases are more harmful than they are helpful and should only be taken when absolutely necessary.
For most everything else, that pill isn't what's making you feel better - it's the BELIEF that the pill is making you better that's really making the difference. The pill, meanwhile, is altering your biochemistry in ways nature never intended.
Check out this article on the placebo effect for more.
Meanwhile, turn that frown upside down!
People who look on the bright side tend to be healthier and live longer than their pessimistic counter parts. Is it because healthier people tend to be happier, or because keeping a positive frame of mind staves off illness and depression?
Recent studies have revealed that anticipation of relief from a placebo can be enough to improve someone's condition. I find it curious that a society so obsessed with pharmaceutical answers doesn't really need drugs at all. At least not in the capacity that we think we do. Certainly, some drugs are able to do what they say they do - but at what cost? I tend to error on the side of Tom Cruise here (which pretty much makes me insane, I know)...drugs in many cases are more harmful than they are helpful and should only be taken when absolutely necessary.
For most everything else, that pill isn't what's making you feel better - it's the BELIEF that the pill is making you better that's really making the difference. The pill, meanwhile, is altering your biochemistry in ways nature never intended.
Check out this article on the placebo effect for more.
Meanwhile, turn that frown upside down!
DOES ANYBODY REALLY KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?
According to statistics, Americans work harder than any other industrialized people – and more than our medieval ancestors! The reason is simple. Getting ahead in our material world is based upon the idea that the sky is the limit. You get paid for the work you do, so if you agree to do more work, you can get more money. Have five jobs if you want. Go nuts. But money's not the valuable commodity. There's something infinitely more precious than money - and people are spending all of it chasing down money.
Did you know that Americans work, on average, nearly 9 weeks more every single year than our Western European counterparts? It may prompt you to ask the question, as it did me, “What the fuck is wrong with us?”
But that’s America. We’re addicted to work.
In advertising, which is both a mirror and shaper of culture, happiness is tethered to the consumption of material goods. In subdivisions from sea to sparkling sea, achievement is measured in purchase power. Status is determined by what you have, not what you do. The people we need the most, it seems, are the ones who get paid the least. Our values are more than a little askew, if you ask me.
My dad once explained that people get paid what they’re worth to whoever is paying them. I considered that bit of wisdom incredibly simple advice, yet profoundly true. People are commodities like anything else, and worth what someone is willing to pay for them. But I’ve found that’s not entirely true in the case of human resources – most people are either getting paid more or less than they are actually worth to the company for which they work.
I know from past experience that I have been both undervalued and overvalued. At my first job I did not bill enough hours to pay my salary – which was pretty damn meager to begin with, as salaries at first jobs typically are. I actually hung onto to that position for far longer than the agency should have kept me on, largely because I am a likeable person. My boss had actually told me over lunch one day that he couldn’t envision ever firing me because I was “cool.” Of course, 7 months of sitting around with nothing to do later, he had to let me go. I was a little hurt at the time, but in hindsight I understand.
At my next agency, I worked hard to prove the true measure of my worth. I busted my ass and made myself an indispensable piece of the company puzzle. And when I marched in to ask for a 10K raise, I got it. And when I ended up leaving a year and half later, they wanted to know if there were anything they could do financially to change my mind. Turns out I had been worth more to them than they were paying me – which was a bittersweet thing to discover. Sweet because it meant I had been valued and my contributions appreciated; bitter because I’d missed out on a lot of dinero.
But that’s the market system at work – people getting paid what they are worth. And, sadly, unless you have the nuts to march in and ask for a raise, you probably won’t find out what you’re really worth until the day you leave. That’s when they call, raise, or fold.
According to polls and surveys, most people believe they are not getting paid what they are worth. It’s hard to put an exact number on something like that, but the general consensus is that whatever our salary is, it should be more. I don’t know where this sense of entitlement comes from, but it’s pretty widespread. I think it comes from the fact that we see other people doing well around us and believe we should be doing just as well, if not better.
“Can you believe they just got a brand new Mercedes? What does he do that’s so important? I’m more important than that guy. I should have a new Mercedes, too!”
And this logic makes us unhappy at work. The fact is, society and the business world value different professions more than others. It’s not that other people are more or less deserving of their salaries, it’s that they are willing and able to perform different corporate functions. Take sales, for example. You can make an absolute killing in sales if you’re willing and able to do it. Sales people can make 2X-4X more in a year than I do, which has prompted me to wonder if I chose the wrong profession. But the fact is, I am not willing OR able to hold a position in sales (largely because I hate people). Sales is a tough gig, which is why those who can do it well are so well rewarded.
One thing I’ve noticed is that most of the people in the top 1% tend to share a pretty similar professional background. That doesn’t mean they’re smarter or more deserving or performing a more vital job – it just means that the company they work for values their contribution a lot more. So then it’s really no wonder that the people who get paid the most in America are people who turn money into more money, protect money, and use legal loopholes to find money: corporate officers, financial brokers, real estate magnates, investment bankers, corporate lawyers, and the like – the suit and tie kings of capitalization, if you will.
While we all agree that teachers are vitally important, too – I think the proof is in the paycheck.
Money matters more than education.
Why? Because money is what sustains us now. Aside from a handful of Amish communities, few Americans are self-sufficient enough to meet all of their needs on their own. Money means access to food, clothes, and shelter. And the more money you have, the better food, clothes, and shelter you can get – from a pantry-sized apartment in the projects to a high-rise penthouse downtown.
There are basically four ways a person can come about money:
- Win it – A rare and wonderful way
- Inherit it – The family way
- Steal it – The dishonest way
- Earn it – The good, old-fashioned way
Winning it. From slot machines to sports betting to online poker rooms to the State Lottery, there’s no shortage of people hoping to win a chunk of change. But winning enough money to sustain a comfortable lifestyle is not common, and most people know better than to expect they will win enough money to quit working. Plus, what’s enough money to quit working these days anyhow? A million bucks sure won’t get what it used to. A nice house in a nice Chicago neighborhood goes for a million bucks these days.
Inheriting it. One of the most bankrupting facts of life is that you can’t take your fortune to the afterlife. So people bequeath their estates to surviving loved ones in an effort to ensure their money, and loved ones, are well taken care of. To those fortunate enough to be born into money, the rules to the American game are a little different. Working is often optional, as large sums of money have a way of multiplying on their own. A good financial advisor and a trust fund are all one needs to enjoy a life of celebrity, designer drugs, high fashion, and cosmetic enhancements.
On inheriting it. I knew a guy named Nick who strolled into our office every day looking for someone to go out to lunch with. He’d stand at your desk for an hour talking about his weekend as if you had as little to do as he did. Nick had a trust fund he knew was maturing in a couple of years. In an effort to teach Nick the value of a dollar, his parents demanded that he take a job somewhere doing something. He took a job doing nothing and, instead, made it impossible for other people to work by standing at their desk and talking about his weekend. My boss once uttered as Nick left for lunch without us, “Man, if that guy didn’t eat he’d have nothing to do.” I remember I was envious of Nick then, but at least I had something to do – and a good reason to do it.
Stealing it. Some people find ways to scam other people out of their money, with or without them knowing it. From massive corporate heists like the Enron scandal to a good, old-fashioned smash and grab, there sure are plenty of ways to steal. As long as there has been money there have been people willing to take it from us. We live in a nation of laws, which, sadly, some believe are meant to be broken.
Earning it. We work hard so we have the freedom to go places, and to buy nicer things, and to live in bigger, better homes, and to provide our children with more than what we had growing up. But are we ever really satisfied? Where do our aspirations end? What’s good enough?
Everywhere you look, the message to our children is that money makes people happy. More money equals more access and better things – which must mean more happiness, right? But money doesn’t really make people happy. Money actually makes it harder for people to enjoy the things that used to make them happy. It’s really no wonder 9 out of 10 kids prefer the Chicken Soft Taco at Taco Bell to the Filet Oscar at Smith & Wollensky. The value of eating either meal is the same to a kid because eating is about being hungry and doing something about it. It’s not about being able to afford the experience of an expensive piece of meat.
As I get older, the things around me get nicer and nicer. A nicer car. Nicer clothes. Nicer meals at nicer restaurants. I used to get a great deal of satisfaction out of things that cost significantly less money – but now I find little satisfaction in those same things because I keep upgrading to something “better.” Could I be as happy now living in the place I was living in just 5 years ago? Eating at the same places I ate 5 years ago? Driving the same car I had 5 years ago? My tastes keep maturing, and getting more expensive as I become accustomed to a higher standard of living.
Today I drink expensive imported beer, drive an expensive imported car, eat at expensive 4-star restaurants, and buy expensive brand-name clothes I’d never even heard of five years ago. I guess that’s the American dream. I guess I’m supposed to feel “better off” now than I was then. But am I really? Is it easier for me to find happiness now than it was then?
Every once in a while I like reverting back to the simple life. I like turning off all of the games and gadgets. I’ll take a walk over to the beach with a crossword puzzle, sit on a breaker, and just be for a couple of hours. I’ll listen to the waves. I’ll admire the horizon. I’ll let the wind have its way with what little hair I have left and actually be completely happy doing it – happy having an experience that costs me nothing.
It’s in moments like these that I can appreciate the value of a commodity far more precious than money. It’s a commodity we are born with, spend so much of during childhood just having fun, but come to appreciate less and less as we get older.
It's called TIME.
You can’t win it.
You can’t inherit it.
You can’t steal it.
And you can’t earn it by working any harder.
All you can do it enjoy it while you’ve got it and hope there’s enough left to do everything you hope to do while you’re here – in this roller-coaster filled amusement park called life.
Did you know that Americans work, on average, nearly 9 weeks more every single year than our Western European counterparts? It may prompt you to ask the question, as it did me, “What the fuck is wrong with us?”
But that’s America. We’re addicted to work.
In advertising, which is both a mirror and shaper of culture, happiness is tethered to the consumption of material goods. In subdivisions from sea to sparkling sea, achievement is measured in purchase power. Status is determined by what you have, not what you do. The people we need the most, it seems, are the ones who get paid the least. Our values are more than a little askew, if you ask me.
My dad once explained that people get paid what they’re worth to whoever is paying them. I considered that bit of wisdom incredibly simple advice, yet profoundly true. People are commodities like anything else, and worth what someone is willing to pay for them. But I’ve found that’s not entirely true in the case of human resources – most people are either getting paid more or less than they are actually worth to the company for which they work.
I know from past experience that I have been both undervalued and overvalued. At my first job I did not bill enough hours to pay my salary – which was pretty damn meager to begin with, as salaries at first jobs typically are. I actually hung onto to that position for far longer than the agency should have kept me on, largely because I am a likeable person. My boss had actually told me over lunch one day that he couldn’t envision ever firing me because I was “cool.” Of course, 7 months of sitting around with nothing to do later, he had to let me go. I was a little hurt at the time, but in hindsight I understand.
At my next agency, I worked hard to prove the true measure of my worth. I busted my ass and made myself an indispensable piece of the company puzzle. And when I marched in to ask for a 10K raise, I got it. And when I ended up leaving a year and half later, they wanted to know if there were anything they could do financially to change my mind. Turns out I had been worth more to them than they were paying me – which was a bittersweet thing to discover. Sweet because it meant I had been valued and my contributions appreciated; bitter because I’d missed out on a lot of dinero.
But that’s the market system at work – people getting paid what they are worth. And, sadly, unless you have the nuts to march in and ask for a raise, you probably won’t find out what you’re really worth until the day you leave. That’s when they call, raise, or fold.
According to polls and surveys, most people believe they are not getting paid what they are worth. It’s hard to put an exact number on something like that, but the general consensus is that whatever our salary is, it should be more. I don’t know where this sense of entitlement comes from, but it’s pretty widespread. I think it comes from the fact that we see other people doing well around us and believe we should be doing just as well, if not better.
“Can you believe they just got a brand new Mercedes? What does he do that’s so important? I’m more important than that guy. I should have a new Mercedes, too!”
And this logic makes us unhappy at work. The fact is, society and the business world value different professions more than others. It’s not that other people are more or less deserving of their salaries, it’s that they are willing and able to perform different corporate functions. Take sales, for example. You can make an absolute killing in sales if you’re willing and able to do it. Sales people can make 2X-4X more in a year than I do, which has prompted me to wonder if I chose the wrong profession. But the fact is, I am not willing OR able to hold a position in sales (largely because I hate people). Sales is a tough gig, which is why those who can do it well are so well rewarded.
One thing I’ve noticed is that most of the people in the top 1% tend to share a pretty similar professional background. That doesn’t mean they’re smarter or more deserving or performing a more vital job – it just means that the company they work for values their contribution a lot more. So then it’s really no wonder that the people who get paid the most in America are people who turn money into more money, protect money, and use legal loopholes to find money: corporate officers, financial brokers, real estate magnates, investment bankers, corporate lawyers, and the like – the suit and tie kings of capitalization, if you will.
While we all agree that teachers are vitally important, too – I think the proof is in the paycheck.
Money matters more than education.
Why? Because money is what sustains us now. Aside from a handful of Amish communities, few Americans are self-sufficient enough to meet all of their needs on their own. Money means access to food, clothes, and shelter. And the more money you have, the better food, clothes, and shelter you can get – from a pantry-sized apartment in the projects to a high-rise penthouse downtown.
There are basically four ways a person can come about money:
- Win it – A rare and wonderful way
- Inherit it – The family way
- Steal it – The dishonest way
- Earn it – The good, old-fashioned way
Winning it. From slot machines to sports betting to online poker rooms to the State Lottery, there’s no shortage of people hoping to win a chunk of change. But winning enough money to sustain a comfortable lifestyle is not common, and most people know better than to expect they will win enough money to quit working. Plus, what’s enough money to quit working these days anyhow? A million bucks sure won’t get what it used to. A nice house in a nice Chicago neighborhood goes for a million bucks these days.
Inheriting it. One of the most bankrupting facts of life is that you can’t take your fortune to the afterlife. So people bequeath their estates to surviving loved ones in an effort to ensure their money, and loved ones, are well taken care of. To those fortunate enough to be born into money, the rules to the American game are a little different. Working is often optional, as large sums of money have a way of multiplying on their own. A good financial advisor and a trust fund are all one needs to enjoy a life of celebrity, designer drugs, high fashion, and cosmetic enhancements.
On inheriting it. I knew a guy named Nick who strolled into our office every day looking for someone to go out to lunch with. He’d stand at your desk for an hour talking about his weekend as if you had as little to do as he did. Nick had a trust fund he knew was maturing in a couple of years. In an effort to teach Nick the value of a dollar, his parents demanded that he take a job somewhere doing something. He took a job doing nothing and, instead, made it impossible for other people to work by standing at their desk and talking about his weekend. My boss once uttered as Nick left for lunch without us, “Man, if that guy didn’t eat he’d have nothing to do.” I remember I was envious of Nick then, but at least I had something to do – and a good reason to do it.
Stealing it. Some people find ways to scam other people out of their money, with or without them knowing it. From massive corporate heists like the Enron scandal to a good, old-fashioned smash and grab, there sure are plenty of ways to steal. As long as there has been money there have been people willing to take it from us. We live in a nation of laws, which, sadly, some believe are meant to be broken.
Earning it. We work hard so we have the freedom to go places, and to buy nicer things, and to live in bigger, better homes, and to provide our children with more than what we had growing up. But are we ever really satisfied? Where do our aspirations end? What’s good enough?
Everywhere you look, the message to our children is that money makes people happy. More money equals more access and better things – which must mean more happiness, right? But money doesn’t really make people happy. Money actually makes it harder for people to enjoy the things that used to make them happy. It’s really no wonder 9 out of 10 kids prefer the Chicken Soft Taco at Taco Bell to the Filet Oscar at Smith & Wollensky. The value of eating either meal is the same to a kid because eating is about being hungry and doing something about it. It’s not about being able to afford the experience of an expensive piece of meat.
As I get older, the things around me get nicer and nicer. A nicer car. Nicer clothes. Nicer meals at nicer restaurants. I used to get a great deal of satisfaction out of things that cost significantly less money – but now I find little satisfaction in those same things because I keep upgrading to something “better.” Could I be as happy now living in the place I was living in just 5 years ago? Eating at the same places I ate 5 years ago? Driving the same car I had 5 years ago? My tastes keep maturing, and getting more expensive as I become accustomed to a higher standard of living.
Today I drink expensive imported beer, drive an expensive imported car, eat at expensive 4-star restaurants, and buy expensive brand-name clothes I’d never even heard of five years ago. I guess that’s the American dream. I guess I’m supposed to feel “better off” now than I was then. But am I really? Is it easier for me to find happiness now than it was then?
Every once in a while I like reverting back to the simple life. I like turning off all of the games and gadgets. I’ll take a walk over to the beach with a crossword puzzle, sit on a breaker, and just be for a couple of hours. I’ll listen to the waves. I’ll admire the horizon. I’ll let the wind have its way with what little hair I have left and actually be completely happy doing it – happy having an experience that costs me nothing.
It’s in moments like these that I can appreciate the value of a commodity far more precious than money. It’s a commodity we are born with, spend so much of during childhood just having fun, but come to appreciate less and less as we get older.
It's called TIME.
You can’t win it.
You can’t inherit it.
You can’t steal it.
And you can’t earn it by working any harder.
All you can do it enjoy it while you’ve got it and hope there’s enough left to do everything you hope to do while you’re here – in this roller-coaster filled amusement park called life.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
MIDDLE EASTERN HALF TIME REPORT
The fighting in the Middle East stopped this week, if only for a little while. Both Israel and the Hezbollah guerillas agreed to the conditions of a UN-brokered cease fire, which basically means you can get up and go to the bathroom because the second half won’t start for another 15 minutes.
If you watch cable news, you’re likely aware that both sides are using this break in the action to claim victory. Hezbollah is passing out candy to children in the streets of Lebanon bragging about how they repelled the evil Israelis. Israel, meanwhile, is reporting that it has destroyed most of Hezbollah’s operational infrastructure. The only thing that appears certain in the wake of this PR war is that hostilities will resume, and likely sooner than later. Hezbollah's infrastructure may have been weakened, but thanks to the Israeli military campaign in Lebanon, its numbers have certainly grown. And because it's been receiving a steady supply of arms from Syria and Iran, the odds of Hezbollah going away are somewhere in near the odds of Rob Schnieder starring in a box office smash.
Certainly, Israel has done much damage to Hezbollah. You can't drop that many bombs on so small a country and not hit a few bad guys here and there. But Hezbollah has achieved a more important victory here in resisting the Israelis long enough to warrant a ceasefire. Indeed, these mischievous Muslim crusaders are proving harder to get rid of than Joe Liebermann.
Another problem for Israel now is the mess they made in Lebanon, which is eerily reminiscent of the mess the U.S. made in Iraq. A more advanced nation rolls in with tanks and planes to battle terrorists and ends up completely destroying the homes and infrastructure of an innocent civilian population. This is not in the handbook on how to win people over and make friends. It's termed collateral damage, incidental death and destruction we accept as a necessary byproduct of ensuring our own safety and protection. I guess the logic there is, "Better their innocent civilians than ours." And as I sip my warm coffee in my air conditioned office here, thousands of miles away from the perils in the Middle East, I find it really hard to argue with that logic - even if something deep down inside doesn't feel right. Maybe I should have stopped after that second cup.
This is the frustration of fighting an enemy that hides among the innocent. They exploit the rules of engagement to their advantage and end up winning the favor of the very people they are endangering because of the perception that the larger “aggressor” is indiscriminately blanket bombing everything in sight. We, as civilians on the other side, assume that Israel and the U.S. have exercised restraint in their respective anti-terror campaigns, but it’s hard to believe sometimes when you see tens of thousands of people returning to rubble they used to call “home.” I keep wondering what we need to do to get those people on OUR side - because that's the key. Bombing them doesn't seem to be working. They're not all terrorists - but they end up sympathizing with the terrorists. Especially when hegemonist world powers demonstrate more interest in their nation's resources than their people.
Maybe a couple million free free iPODs would help.
I didn't think so.
If you watch cable news, you’re likely aware that both sides are using this break in the action to claim victory. Hezbollah is passing out candy to children in the streets of Lebanon bragging about how they repelled the evil Israelis. Israel, meanwhile, is reporting that it has destroyed most of Hezbollah’s operational infrastructure. The only thing that appears certain in the wake of this PR war is that hostilities will resume, and likely sooner than later. Hezbollah's infrastructure may have been weakened, but thanks to the Israeli military campaign in Lebanon, its numbers have certainly grown. And because it's been receiving a steady supply of arms from Syria and Iran, the odds of Hezbollah going away are somewhere in near the odds of Rob Schnieder starring in a box office smash.
Certainly, Israel has done much damage to Hezbollah. You can't drop that many bombs on so small a country and not hit a few bad guys here and there. But Hezbollah has achieved a more important victory here in resisting the Israelis long enough to warrant a ceasefire. Indeed, these mischievous Muslim crusaders are proving harder to get rid of than Joe Liebermann.
Another problem for Israel now is the mess they made in Lebanon, which is eerily reminiscent of the mess the U.S. made in Iraq. A more advanced nation rolls in with tanks and planes to battle terrorists and ends up completely destroying the homes and infrastructure of an innocent civilian population. This is not in the handbook on how to win people over and make friends. It's termed collateral damage, incidental death and destruction we accept as a necessary byproduct of ensuring our own safety and protection. I guess the logic there is, "Better their innocent civilians than ours." And as I sip my warm coffee in my air conditioned office here, thousands of miles away from the perils in the Middle East, I find it really hard to argue with that logic - even if something deep down inside doesn't feel right. Maybe I should have stopped after that second cup.
This is the frustration of fighting an enemy that hides among the innocent. They exploit the rules of engagement to their advantage and end up winning the favor of the very people they are endangering because of the perception that the larger “aggressor” is indiscriminately blanket bombing everything in sight. We, as civilians on the other side, assume that Israel and the U.S. have exercised restraint in their respective anti-terror campaigns, but it’s hard to believe sometimes when you see tens of thousands of people returning to rubble they used to call “home.” I keep wondering what we need to do to get those people on OUR side - because that's the key. Bombing them doesn't seem to be working. They're not all terrorists - but they end up sympathizing with the terrorists. Especially when hegemonist world powers demonstrate more interest in their nation's resources than their people.
Maybe a couple million free free iPODs would help.
I didn't think so.
Monday, August 14, 2006
CAN I SEE YOUR ID PLEASE?
Folks are meeting in Prague this week to determine whether or not to keep Pluto on the short list of planetary worthiness.
Nearly 2,500 astronomers from 75 countries are trying to come up with a once-and-for-all definition of what makes a planet a planet. And their decision could cost Pluto its job!
For most of us, the solar system has always had nine planets. That’s what they taught us back in grammar school – and that’s how many clay balls we included in our space mobile at the science fair. But then recently scientists discovered a heavenly body larger than Pluto a little farther out and they've been going around in circles ever since. Does the solar system have 10 planets, or do we revoke Pluto’s membership and trim the list to 8?
The problem with adding this extra planet (her name is Xena, by the way), is that there are actually plenty more where she came from. So by adding a 10th, we’d actually be letting in all sorts of cosmic riff-raff and planetary poseurs. To control the kind of company we keep within the confines of our solar system, some scientists are recommending we draw the line after Neptune - making a clean break based on size.
But why cut Pluto if it's already planet? Because Pluto’s status has always been questionable. It’s actually smaller than the moon! The problem with kicking Pluto out is that most people LIKE Pluto. And don’t forget Pluto’s neighbors. If Pluto gets the boot, Neptune and Uranus have threatened to leave, too. So some scientists say it’s better to keep Pluto on as an honorary planet, even if it lacks the heavenly luster we like in a solid, rocky mass of revolving ice.
I know what you’re thinking – good thing someone else is in charge of making the really tough decisions. If planets smaller than Pluto are let into the solar club, then we’re looking at including up to 44 more planets! It could get crowded up in here.
Nearly 2,500 astronomers from 75 countries are trying to come up with a once-and-for-all definition of what makes a planet a planet. And their decision could cost Pluto its job!
For most of us, the solar system has always had nine planets. That’s what they taught us back in grammar school – and that’s how many clay balls we included in our space mobile at the science fair. But then recently scientists discovered a heavenly body larger than Pluto a little farther out and they've been going around in circles ever since. Does the solar system have 10 planets, or do we revoke Pluto’s membership and trim the list to 8?
The problem with adding this extra planet (her name is Xena, by the way), is that there are actually plenty more where she came from. So by adding a 10th, we’d actually be letting in all sorts of cosmic riff-raff and planetary poseurs. To control the kind of company we keep within the confines of our solar system, some scientists are recommending we draw the line after Neptune - making a clean break based on size.
But why cut Pluto if it's already planet? Because Pluto’s status has always been questionable. It’s actually smaller than the moon! The problem with kicking Pluto out is that most people LIKE Pluto. And don’t forget Pluto’s neighbors. If Pluto gets the boot, Neptune and Uranus have threatened to leave, too. So some scientists say it’s better to keep Pluto on as an honorary planet, even if it lacks the heavenly luster we like in a solid, rocky mass of revolving ice.
I know what you’re thinking – good thing someone else is in charge of making the really tough decisions. If planets smaller than Pluto are let into the solar club, then we’re looking at including up to 44 more planets! It could get crowded up in here.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
DID YOU KNOW?
Did you know that the Sears Tower is so big it has its own ZIP code? True story.
And, it takes two full months to wash all of its windows. Two whole months. By the time I'm done I have to start all over again!
Friday, August 11, 2006
MESSENGERS OF ACCOUNTABILITY
We hear these stories on the news every day. Criminals who ought to be locked up are out in the world committing crimes - not because they escaped prison, but because the judicial system failed to protect us from them. We hear victims asking, "Why was this person on the street?" and "How could something like this happen?"
A recent case in San Francisco involves a man who should have been sent to jail a number of times, out breaking the law instead, and what we end up with is a dead police officer. The media, instead of focusing on why the criminal was still out on the street in the first place, decided to question the actions of the dead officer and the policies of the department. This prompted Gary Delagnes, fed-up President of the San Francisco Police Officers Association, to craft a statement for the media.
And, boy, it's a good one!
Check it out here as this dude tells it like it is. After the brief commercial, turn your volume up.
Testify!
A recent case in San Francisco involves a man who should have been sent to jail a number of times, out breaking the law instead, and what we end up with is a dead police officer. The media, instead of focusing on why the criminal was still out on the street in the first place, decided to question the actions of the dead officer and the policies of the department. This prompted Gary Delagnes, fed-up President of the San Francisco Police Officers Association, to craft a statement for the media.
And, boy, it's a good one!
Check it out here as this dude tells it like it is. After the brief commercial, turn your volume up.
Testify!
THE FLATULATION STATION
That's what they call my desk here at the office.
Strangely, I don't mind so much. At least not as much as everyone else here.
Strangely, I don't mind so much. At least not as much as everyone else here.
ATTENTION PASSENGERS...
Due to recent threats to airline safety, it is recommended you arrive at the airport 3 days before your scheduled flight to allow enough time to pass through security.
Also, please be aware that no liquids will be permitted in the cabin, including bodily fluids. That means no crying, spitting, or sweating.
Also, please be aware that no liquids will be permitted in the cabin, including bodily fluids. That means no crying, spitting, or sweating.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
THE YOUNG MAN AND THE RIVER
Last weekend I went brownwater rafting in Wisconsin. It's kind of like whitewater rafting, only the water is a murky brown color. It was the 17th year in a row I made the journey north from Chicago to eat, drink, and get very, very wet. As always, it proved the highlight of my year. I partied in a remote field with 43 fellow revelers – some veterans, some virgins - all looking forward to spending a weekend away - from something, somewhere, or someone.
I remember the first year I went: 1990. Seems like it wasn't that long ago until I think of everything that has happened in the world since then. It was 2 years before the golden economic era of Clinton/Gore began. Before the first Gulf War. A whole decade before the Y2K scare. 1990 was a fairly long time ago.
I was a lot younger back then, and didn’t know what to expect from this "rafting trip" experience. I remember I packed a pillow and sleeping bag for the long ride up. That was it. I mooched cheap cans of Clipper beer that still had the pull tab tops, leftover hot dogs from whoever had them, and slept under a tree with some girl I’d just met, which sounds like more fun than it actually was. We actually SLEPT there, without touching one another. I also had really bad asthma that night…and it rained.
The following year I brought up a tent and asthma medicine and fared much better. With the elements, that is, not the girls. I guess once word got out that I'd spent a whole night with a drunk girl and didn’t make a move, folks pegged me for light in the aquasocks. It was an embarrassment I was quick to outgrow - at least quicker than the time I was reportedly manipulating myself in my sleep by the campfire. I steadfastly denied those reports, by the way, with little success. But for some reason, when a story like that gets out, people WANT to believe it. So my nickname was Strokey the Bear for a couple years. Whatever.
In the years that followed I taught myself how to play guitar and started jamming fireside. I invented my own tunes and strummed them drunkenly in the flickering firelight, howling like a lonely coyote, eyes closed to the moon. The rafting trip has always been the one place I could play and sing in front of people without butterflies. The songs I wrote way back when have aged better than I have – they capture the spirit of an inspired young man with a lot left to learn. Singing them these days reminds me of how far I’ve come – and makes me wonder how much farther I’ll get to go.
Back in the early 90’s I was young and fearless. While most of the stretch of the Wolf River we run is pretty tame, there are a number of spots along the way where the current picks up and you can get pitched into the drink ipretty quick if you’re not smart. Or not sober – which is common. Heading for the rapids, most people strap on their life jackets and hunker down in their rafts. My partner and I, however, would take our shirts off, stand up, and wave our oars above our head. At that age, reckless was cool. These days it’s irresponsible. Most of the time we surfed our way down without incident.
MOST of the time.
Every year I've become a little less daring. For some reason, that fearless spirit has left me – I worry more now, and take fewer risks. And not only on the river, but in life. Strange how time can change you in ways you don’t even realize. Until you look back and think about the things you used to do and shudder – amazed you ever made it this far.
*****
On late Friday afternoon, as the sun began to flirt with the pine tops, I looked around and made an interesting observation. There was laughter everywhere. I closed my eyes and just listened. It was beautiful. People were joking and laughing and sharing stories. I could hear the excitement in their voices and it made me smile. The campground was about as happy a place on earth as you could find.
When I opened my eyes I saw that every single person was grinning from ear to ear. Lobbing bean bags. Tossing footballs. Playing cards. Taking pictures. It’s not all that often in life that you see so many happy people in one place. And that’s when I realized the EXACT reason I looked forward to this trip every year. It wasn’t about the rafting or the camping or the grossly irresponsible binge drinking – it was about PEOPLE. Shiny, happy people.
And happiness is contagious.
It’s easy to forget about all of the bullshit that plagues our day-to-day existence when we’re surrounded by that much happiness. We become kids at recess – not a care in the world…and those three days every year are our 10 minutes on the schoolyard. Our time to play. Our time to stretch out our legs. Our time to scream for no reason. Our time to call each other “gay” over and over and over again. I don’t know why we do that, but we do.
17 years after I first went rafting, I have enough gear to fill a full-sized sedan. I sleep in the comfort of a large tent on an air mattress under a warm sleeping bag. I bring my own food and drinks – usually enough to share. And when it comes time to hit the rapids, I strap on a life jacket and hunker down. I’m not the same person I was back then. I’m older, wiser, and scared shitless I might get tossed out of the raft as we approach Big Smokey Falls. But I still go back every year because it's the happiest place I know.
And because the river is symbolic of my life. I wake up every day in the middle of it. I float along carelessly most of the time, knowing there will be tumultuous rapids ahead. When I was younger, I didn't know enough about the rapids to fear them, so I faced them standing up, and unprotected. But now as I float along, I have exprienced the perils firsthand and I know the dangers ahead. So when I hear the roar of the falls in the distance, I hunker down and fasten up my vest. The river is the same, but my perspective has changed. And while each day is as familiar to me as the banks of the Wolf, I look at things in a different way than I once had.
One thing has always remained true throughout it all - good friends sure do make the float down fun.
I remember the first year I went: 1990. Seems like it wasn't that long ago until I think of everything that has happened in the world since then. It was 2 years before the golden economic era of Clinton/Gore began. Before the first Gulf War. A whole decade before the Y2K scare. 1990 was a fairly long time ago.
I was a lot younger back then, and didn’t know what to expect from this "rafting trip" experience. I remember I packed a pillow and sleeping bag for the long ride up. That was it. I mooched cheap cans of Clipper beer that still had the pull tab tops, leftover hot dogs from whoever had them, and slept under a tree with some girl I’d just met, which sounds like more fun than it actually was. We actually SLEPT there, without touching one another. I also had really bad asthma that night…and it rained.
The following year I brought up a tent and asthma medicine and fared much better. With the elements, that is, not the girls. I guess once word got out that I'd spent a whole night with a drunk girl and didn’t make a move, folks pegged me for light in the aquasocks. It was an embarrassment I was quick to outgrow - at least quicker than the time I was reportedly manipulating myself in my sleep by the campfire. I steadfastly denied those reports, by the way, with little success. But for some reason, when a story like that gets out, people WANT to believe it. So my nickname was Strokey the Bear for a couple years. Whatever.
In the years that followed I taught myself how to play guitar and started jamming fireside. I invented my own tunes and strummed them drunkenly in the flickering firelight, howling like a lonely coyote, eyes closed to the moon. The rafting trip has always been the one place I could play and sing in front of people without butterflies. The songs I wrote way back when have aged better than I have – they capture the spirit of an inspired young man with a lot left to learn. Singing them these days reminds me of how far I’ve come – and makes me wonder how much farther I’ll get to go.
Back in the early 90’s I was young and fearless. While most of the stretch of the Wolf River we run is pretty tame, there are a number of spots along the way where the current picks up and you can get pitched into the drink ipretty quick if you’re not smart. Or not sober – which is common. Heading for the rapids, most people strap on their life jackets and hunker down in their rafts. My partner and I, however, would take our shirts off, stand up, and wave our oars above our head. At that age, reckless was cool. These days it’s irresponsible. Most of the time we surfed our way down without incident. MOST of the time.
Every year I've become a little less daring. For some reason, that fearless spirit has left me – I worry more now, and take fewer risks. And not only on the river, but in life. Strange how time can change you in ways you don’t even realize. Until you look back and think about the things you used to do and shudder – amazed you ever made it this far.
*****
On late Friday afternoon, as the sun began to flirt with the pine tops, I looked around and made an interesting observation. There was laughter everywhere. I closed my eyes and just listened. It was beautiful. People were joking and laughing and sharing stories. I could hear the excitement in their voices and it made me smile. The campground was about as happy a place on earth as you could find.
When I opened my eyes I saw that every single person was grinning from ear to ear. Lobbing bean bags. Tossing footballs. Playing cards. Taking pictures. It’s not all that often in life that you see so many happy people in one place. And that’s when I realized the EXACT reason I looked forward to this trip every year. It wasn’t about the rafting or the camping or the grossly irresponsible binge drinking – it was about PEOPLE. Shiny, happy people.
And happiness is contagious.
It’s easy to forget about all of the bullshit that plagues our day-to-day existence when we’re surrounded by that much happiness. We become kids at recess – not a care in the world…and those three days every year are our 10 minutes on the schoolyard. Our time to play. Our time to stretch out our legs. Our time to scream for no reason. Our time to call each other “gay” over and over and over again. I don’t know why we do that, but we do.
17 years after I first went rafting, I have enough gear to fill a full-sized sedan. I sleep in the comfort of a large tent on an air mattress under a warm sleeping bag. I bring my own food and drinks – usually enough to share. And when it comes time to hit the rapids, I strap on a life jacket and hunker down. I’m not the same person I was back then. I’m older, wiser, and scared shitless I might get tossed out of the raft as we approach Big Smokey Falls. But I still go back every year because it's the happiest place I know.
And because the river is symbolic of my life. I wake up every day in the middle of it. I float along carelessly most of the time, knowing there will be tumultuous rapids ahead. When I was younger, I didn't know enough about the rapids to fear them, so I faced them standing up, and unprotected. But now as I float along, I have exprienced the perils firsthand and I know the dangers ahead. So when I hear the roar of the falls in the distance, I hunker down and fasten up my vest. The river is the same, but my perspective has changed. And while each day is as familiar to me as the banks of the Wolf, I look at things in a different way than I once had.
One thing has always remained true throughout it all - good friends sure do make the float down fun.
DELAYED
Another terror plot was foiled this morning - a joint effort between officials the UK and Pakistan. Many believe this was to be another big one involving up to 10 jet airplanes blowing up over the Atlantic en route from Britain to the U.S.
According to initial reports, the would-be bombers (who hail from the UK, but fit the terrorist mold, men of Middle Eastern descent between 17-35) planned to visit the commode in-flight to assemble hand-made explosives with materials snuck onto the plane in carry-on baggage disguised as everyday items like hair gel and hand lotion. Pretty crafty, no?
As as result, reactive airline security has been banning all forms of liquid from boarding, with the exception of prescription medication and baby formula. That seems a little over the top to me, especially when there are other ways to address the threat of in-flight bomb-building.
Security really needs to think outside of the box on this. Instead of holding up air traffic and forcing consumers to dump hundreds of thousands of dollars of products down the drain, why not just close the bathrooms? With no place to assemble their make-shift munitions, the terrorists' evil plans are essentially grounded before they ever get off the ground...so to speak.
As for passengers needing to make deposits in-flight, I recommend handing out Depends at the terminal. Each pair has a capacity well in excess of what might be required for a trans-Atlantic flight. So if you gotta go, just go. No worries.
Or hold it.
******* Controversial side-note:
What still kills me - and I always get flak from somebody for statements like this - is that simple profiling would put an end to the security madness. Just like on September 11th, we know exactly what these "evil-doers" look like. They all fit the same fucking profile. Why are we making that 12-year-old Irish girl throw away her saline solution? So that we can say we're being sensitive? Fuck sensitive. I want two lines at the airport - one for people who look like terrorists and one for everyone else. Until 75 year old Asian women start smuggling box cutters onto 767s, I think we'll be okay.
But then that wouldn't FAIR to all of the law-abiding folks who happen to share the same physical characteristics as known terrorists. Hell, that would mean some of my good friends would be forced to go through a separate, more scrutinous security checkpoint before boarding the same plane. So long as they aren't badgered, berated, or harmed in any way, I find that a completely reasonable security measure given our understanding of who these terrorists are. It's all in the interest of promoting safe, convenient air travel for the masses.
I'm so insensitive, I know. Common sense can be cruel sometimes. But I suppose it's politically safer to be politically correct - so let's stop every man, woman, and child in the terminal, strip them completely naked, give them MRIs, CAT Scans, and full cavity searches, shred their luggage with sledgehammers, dump their carry-on items into the trash, and then file them onto the plane like sheep to the shearer. If everyone is naked and there's no luggage to worry about, then we can be completely certain the only threats to passenger safety will be an occasional erection poking someone in the eye.
According to initial reports, the would-be bombers (who hail from the UK, but fit the terrorist mold, men of Middle Eastern descent between 17-35) planned to visit the commode in-flight to assemble hand-made explosives with materials snuck onto the plane in carry-on baggage disguised as everyday items like hair gel and hand lotion. Pretty crafty, no?
As as result, reactive airline security has been banning all forms of liquid from boarding, with the exception of prescription medication and baby formula. That seems a little over the top to me, especially when there are other ways to address the threat of in-flight bomb-building.
Security really needs to think outside of the box on this. Instead of holding up air traffic and forcing consumers to dump hundreds of thousands of dollars of products down the drain, why not just close the bathrooms? With no place to assemble their make-shift munitions, the terrorists' evil plans are essentially grounded before they ever get off the ground...so to speak.
As for passengers needing to make deposits in-flight, I recommend handing out Depends at the terminal. Each pair has a capacity well in excess of what might be required for a trans-Atlantic flight. So if you gotta go, just go. No worries.
Or hold it.
******* Controversial side-note:
What still kills me - and I always get flak from somebody for statements like this - is that simple profiling would put an end to the security madness. Just like on September 11th, we know exactly what these "evil-doers" look like. They all fit the same fucking profile. Why are we making that 12-year-old Irish girl throw away her saline solution? So that we can say we're being sensitive? Fuck sensitive. I want two lines at the airport - one for people who look like terrorists and one for everyone else. Until 75 year old Asian women start smuggling box cutters onto 767s, I think we'll be okay.
But then that wouldn't FAIR to all of the law-abiding folks who happen to share the same physical characteristics as known terrorists. Hell, that would mean some of my good friends would be forced to go through a separate, more scrutinous security checkpoint before boarding the same plane. So long as they aren't badgered, berated, or harmed in any way, I find that a completely reasonable security measure given our understanding of who these terrorists are. It's all in the interest of promoting safe, convenient air travel for the masses.
I'm so insensitive, I know. Common sense can be cruel sometimes. But I suppose it's politically safer to be politically correct - so let's stop every man, woman, and child in the terminal, strip them completely naked, give them MRIs, CAT Scans, and full cavity searches, shred their luggage with sledgehammers, dump their carry-on items into the trash, and then file them onto the plane like sheep to the shearer. If everyone is naked and there's no luggage to worry about, then we can be completely certain the only threats to passenger safety will be an occasional erection poking someone in the eye.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
DON'T BANK ON IT
For the first time ever, Americans owe more money than they make.
According to new figures released this week, household debt has surpassed household income by more than 8% - this according to the Center for American Progress. And it's getting worse. Prices keep going up, but income levels are not rising to meet them. Add to that recent rises in interest rates and you've got a lot of people owing a lot more money to financial institutions every month.
ARMS (Adjustable Rate Mortgages) have been called the biggest scams in the history of lending because borrowers are sold on low rates that are all but guaranteed to explode at the end of the adjustable term. They look attractive because the monthly payments start out nice and low - but as the price of money climbs, so do the payments. I know from personal experience how this can affect disposable income, as my rate is on the way to doubling what it was when I "locked" it in 3 years ago - for the short term, that is. I couldn't afford the place I wanted with fixed rates what they were, so I gambled on an ARM and lost. Now I'm paying a shitload more every month. Money I used to spend on and save for other things - like ME.
Most credit cards and home equity lines operate in the same way - the rates are variable, not fixed - meaning when the Fed hikes Prime, the banks pass along that courtesy to you...hiking YOUR rate Consequently, the minimum payment on your second mortgage rises, as does the amount that's tacked onto your credit card balance every month. Carry a balance, do you? It's costing you a lot more these days than it was a couple years ago.
The result? We now owe more than we earn. There's a word for that: beholden. We are essentially slaves, and our master is the Bank. Take a look around when you drive home tonight. Bank branches are popping up everywhere. Washington Mutual. Bank of America. Chase. Every strip mall and street corner has a fresh brick and mortar location. Major financial institutions are cleaning house...and here's the best part (for them). When we're struggling to make ends meet because our mortgage payments (first and second) keep rising, and we can't get to work because the price of gas is so fucking out of control, we start CHARGING shit on our credit cards, which are issued by all the same banks holding our mortgages.
They own us.
Legend has it home ownership is the way to go because of something called "equity." But that equity isn't yours - it belongs to the bank because the bank owns the property. You don't see that until you manage to sell your property, which is only worth what someone is willing to give you for it. And that, my friends, isn't a whole lot these days because interest rates are high, consumer prices are high, debt keeps getting higher, and salaries remain stagnant. We are but serfs, working the lord's manor - sending off a majority of our income to the bank every month - mortgage payments, credit card payments, student loan payments, car payments, etc.
Our standard of living is an addiction enabled by the banks. And now that they have us hooked on owning our own homes and enjoying our fancy consumer electronics and driving our nice new cars, we'll do ANYTHING to maintain this lifestyle. We'll keep buying and spending and borrowing from them, getting deeper and deeper into debt. It's not looking good. I recommend stashing extra cash under the mattress, because we're one significant terrorist strike or natural disaster away from a massive financial meltdown.
The good news? Rates didn't go up yesterday after 17 consecutive hikes. But before you jump for joy, gas prices are up again. I'm feeling squeezed to the point I can't breathe. Or is that just my asthma acting up?
According to new figures released this week, household debt has surpassed household income by more than 8% - this according to the Center for American Progress. And it's getting worse. Prices keep going up, but income levels are not rising to meet them. Add to that recent rises in interest rates and you've got a lot of people owing a lot more money to financial institutions every month.
ARMS (Adjustable Rate Mortgages) have been called the biggest scams in the history of lending because borrowers are sold on low rates that are all but guaranteed to explode at the end of the adjustable term. They look attractive because the monthly payments start out nice and low - but as the price of money climbs, so do the payments. I know from personal experience how this can affect disposable income, as my rate is on the way to doubling what it was when I "locked" it in 3 years ago - for the short term, that is. I couldn't afford the place I wanted with fixed rates what they were, so I gambled on an ARM and lost. Now I'm paying a shitload more every month. Money I used to spend on and save for other things - like ME.
Most credit cards and home equity lines operate in the same way - the rates are variable, not fixed - meaning when the Fed hikes Prime, the banks pass along that courtesy to you...hiking YOUR rate Consequently, the minimum payment on your second mortgage rises, as does the amount that's tacked onto your credit card balance every month. Carry a balance, do you? It's costing you a lot more these days than it was a couple years ago.
The result? We now owe more than we earn. There's a word for that: beholden. We are essentially slaves, and our master is the Bank. Take a look around when you drive home tonight. Bank branches are popping up everywhere. Washington Mutual. Bank of America. Chase. Every strip mall and street corner has a fresh brick and mortar location. Major financial institutions are cleaning house...and here's the best part (for them). When we're struggling to make ends meet because our mortgage payments (first and second) keep rising, and we can't get to work because the price of gas is so fucking out of control, we start CHARGING shit on our credit cards, which are issued by all the same banks holding our mortgages.
They own us.
Legend has it home ownership is the way to go because of something called "equity." But that equity isn't yours - it belongs to the bank because the bank owns the property. You don't see that until you manage to sell your property, which is only worth what someone is willing to give you for it. And that, my friends, isn't a whole lot these days because interest rates are high, consumer prices are high, debt keeps getting higher, and salaries remain stagnant. We are but serfs, working the lord's manor - sending off a majority of our income to the bank every month - mortgage payments, credit card payments, student loan payments, car payments, etc.
Our standard of living is an addiction enabled by the banks. And now that they have us hooked on owning our own homes and enjoying our fancy consumer electronics and driving our nice new cars, we'll do ANYTHING to maintain this lifestyle. We'll keep buying and spending and borrowing from them, getting deeper and deeper into debt. It's not looking good. I recommend stashing extra cash under the mattress, because we're one significant terrorist strike or natural disaster away from a massive financial meltdown.
The good news? Rates didn't go up yesterday after 17 consecutive hikes. But before you jump for joy, gas prices are up again. I'm feeling squeezed to the point I can't breathe. Or is that just my asthma acting up?
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
BEN FRANKLIN SAYS
Have you ever noticed that you can pretty much pull any quote out of your ass, attribute it to Ben Franklin, and people will believe you? It's true. Try it some time. Here's a script that works for me everytime. It does help if your audience has been drinking.
"People suck. You know who first said that? Ben Franklin. True story. Some idiot spilled ink all over the first draft of the Articles of Confederation and he lost his mind. Yelled at Jefferson. Swung around and knocked Adams' wig clean off. It was quite a scene. And then, right toward the end of his expletive session, he just sighed and said 'people suck.' History sure is amazing, isn't it?"
Anyhow, my good buddy Ben is back - and in rare form. His sharp, amusing tirades can be accessed by using the Voice of America link in my left sidebar. Turns out I'm not the only monkey with a typewriter. This week Ben hammered out something truly wonderful and I have asked his permission to share it here because, well, I haven't afforded you people much substance of late and figured if I had more time, I would want to say something like this.
So without further ado, I give you Ben Franklin...on George Bush's ridiculous veto of stem cell research.
*************** FROM VOICE OF AMERICA ******************
George Bush recently enacted his first veto. Unless you've been hiding under a rock, or bombed out by the Israeli war machine, you know that the veto was in response to legislation that proposed increased federal assistance to support stem cell research. If you failed to read beyond the first two sentences of the articles about this veto, you may not know that his reasoning for enacting the veto was to prevent the destruction of human life. I'm paraphrasing here, but essentially George stated that the destruction of human life is never acceptable, not even if the end result is the potential benefit to other existing lives. And so, veto it was.
Now the paradox here, naturally, is that we've invaded Iraq, and, in the process, killed nearly 2,500 US combat personnel, as well as nearly 40,000 Iraqi's, both insurgent, and innocent civilians. The impetus for that invasion, as you well, know, was to promote democracy and peace in the middle east. Further, you've probably heard that President Bush has failed to denounce Israel's invasion of Lebanon, as Israel has a right, in Bush's words, to defend herself and protect her citizens. The result of Israel's invasion has been the slaughter of nearly 600 Lebanese, mostly innocent civilians, many of them children.
So, let's recap, and be very clear on this point. It's never acceptable to destroy human life, even if the result is potentially stunning medical advances, but it IS okay to destroy human life, if the result is potentially increasing American hegemony abroad. So, in short, if the vocal minority of the religious right condemns it, it's a BAD way to kill humans (even if they aren't legally protected by the constitution), but if the religious right is quiet on the subject, it's a GOOD way to kill humans (and also get to sell more offensive weapons to Israel! woohoo!)
Are you confused? I sure am. Remember, this is a guy who professes to be born again - one would think that would allow for a fairly clear understanding of "thou shalt not kill" - unless, of course, it's darker skin folk half-way around the world. If they don't worship the same God, then they don't really count, it would seem. It also sure as heck doesn't help that they can't vote here (though, to be fair, neither can zygotes).
What I REALLY want to know is, what will Ralph Reed think of stem cell research if he's struck with Parkinson's, Alzheimer's, Diabetes, or any number of cancers? Well, I can't say what Ralphie boy will do, but I'll grin. Couldn't happen to a nicer racist. Well, it COULD happen to Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson, but they assure me that their direct lines to God would preclude anything like that happening to them. Also, Strom Thurmond is already dead, so there's that.
"People suck. You know who first said that? Ben Franklin. True story. Some idiot spilled ink all over the first draft of the Articles of Confederation and he lost his mind. Yelled at Jefferson. Swung around and knocked Adams' wig clean off. It was quite a scene. And then, right toward the end of his expletive session, he just sighed and said 'people suck.' History sure is amazing, isn't it?"
Anyhow, my good buddy Ben is back - and in rare form. His sharp, amusing tirades can be accessed by using the Voice of America link in my left sidebar. Turns out I'm not the only monkey with a typewriter. This week Ben hammered out something truly wonderful and I have asked his permission to share it here because, well, I haven't afforded you people much substance of late and figured if I had more time, I would want to say something like this.
So without further ado, I give you Ben Franklin...on George Bush's ridiculous veto of stem cell research.
*************** FROM VOICE OF AMERICA ******************
George Bush recently enacted his first veto. Unless you've been hiding under a rock, or bombed out by the Israeli war machine, you know that the veto was in response to legislation that proposed increased federal assistance to support stem cell research. If you failed to read beyond the first two sentences of the articles about this veto, you may not know that his reasoning for enacting the veto was to prevent the destruction of human life. I'm paraphrasing here, but essentially George stated that the destruction of human life is never acceptable, not even if the end result is the potential benefit to other existing lives. And so, veto it was.
Now the paradox here, naturally, is that we've invaded Iraq, and, in the process, killed nearly 2,500 US combat personnel, as well as nearly 40,000 Iraqi's, both insurgent, and innocent civilians. The impetus for that invasion, as you well, know, was to promote democracy and peace in the middle east. Further, you've probably heard that President Bush has failed to denounce Israel's invasion of Lebanon, as Israel has a right, in Bush's words, to defend herself and protect her citizens. The result of Israel's invasion has been the slaughter of nearly 600 Lebanese, mostly innocent civilians, many of them children.
So, let's recap, and be very clear on this point. It's never acceptable to destroy human life, even if the result is potentially stunning medical advances, but it IS okay to destroy human life, if the result is potentially increasing American hegemony abroad. So, in short, if the vocal minority of the religious right condemns it, it's a BAD way to kill humans (even if they aren't legally protected by the constitution), but if the religious right is quiet on the subject, it's a GOOD way to kill humans (and also get to sell more offensive weapons to Israel! woohoo!)
Are you confused? I sure am. Remember, this is a guy who professes to be born again - one would think that would allow for a fairly clear understanding of "thou shalt not kill" - unless, of course, it's darker skin folk half-way around the world. If they don't worship the same God, then they don't really count, it would seem. It also sure as heck doesn't help that they can't vote here (though, to be fair, neither can zygotes).
What I REALLY want to know is, what will Ralph Reed think of stem cell research if he's struck with Parkinson's, Alzheimer's, Diabetes, or any number of cancers? Well, I can't say what Ralphie boy will do, but I'll grin. Couldn't happen to a nicer racist. Well, it COULD happen to Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson, but they assure me that their direct lines to God would preclude anything like that happening to them. Also, Strom Thurmond is already dead, so there's that.
GOD'S OVEN IS SELF-CLEANING
I think I've got it all figured out. You know how self-cleaning ovens clean themselves by baking everything inside to a wafery crisp so that, afterward, they can be wiped out with a moist rag? God noticed a lot of filth was building up inside his beautiful blue oven and decided it was time to clean it out. So He's got the earth on broil right now. And when He's done baking everything, He'll send a bunch of moist hurricanes and tsunamis through to sponge out all the crumbs.
Our fine oven should be sparkling clean shortly so the good Lord can get to work on firing up a whole new human stew...from scratch.
This batch didn't quite turn out the way He had hoped.
Our fine oven should be sparkling clean shortly so the good Lord can get to work on firing up a whole new human stew...from scratch.
This batch didn't quite turn out the way He had hoped.
Monday, July 31, 2006
MAKING RADIO WAVES
KFYE-FM in Fresno was jamming Christian music, broadcasting sermons, and sharing Bible stories until about a week ago.
Then came a radical format change.
Now it’s "Porn Radio — all sex radio, all the time." No joke. They actually switched from Christian broadcasting to pump and grind, suggesting people under 21 not listen because of the sexual nature of the content. What exactly is porno radio? Basically, it's little more than songs with suggestive titles, such as "Why Don't We Do It in the Road" by The Beatles, "Sexual Healing" by Marvin Gaye, and "Nasty" by Janet Jackson. And if the song isn't porno enough, they'll spice it up with recorded moans and groans. Nice.
Imagine the poor sap tuning in for an inspirational lift and hearing “Oh God!”
That's a religious experience of a different kind.
Then came a radical format change.
Now it’s "Porn Radio — all sex radio, all the time." No joke. They actually switched from Christian broadcasting to pump and grind, suggesting people under 21 not listen because of the sexual nature of the content. What exactly is porno radio? Basically, it's little more than songs with suggestive titles, such as "Why Don't We Do It in the Road" by The Beatles, "Sexual Healing" by Marvin Gaye, and "Nasty" by Janet Jackson. And if the song isn't porno enough, they'll spice it up with recorded moans and groans. Nice.
Imagine the poor sap tuning in for an inspirational lift and hearing “Oh God!”
That's a religious experience of a different kind.
FLOWING ENDLESSLY LIKE A SILENT TEAR
Somehow I managed to go for a jog this morning. I usually just keep rolling over and rolling over until I’m late enough for work I end up brushing my teeth in the shower. Today I spontaneously swung my legs to the floor, stretched my arms out, yawned wide, blinked my eyes a number of times to lubricate the contact lenses I never take out, and swayed forward to stand. Yes, today I decided to start things off with a jog on the lakefront.
The first thing I noticed when I pushed through the revolving door downstairs was the heat. Seems the scientists are onto something here – it definitely feels hotter than normal these days. Here it was in the mid 80’s at 7am – and oppressively humid. Yes, temperatures have been fluctuating cyclically for millenia...but scientists say current trends are unprecedented in over 650,000 years according to measurable data on the global climate. But the oil lobby spends a lot of money and spins a lot of bullshit to keep doubt circulating in the mainstream media, so it's unlikely anyone will take these record highs seriously.
I loped down the steps and hopped into a slow trot, pushing play on my MP3 player and picking up the pace as the Dandy Warhols fired up Bohemian Like You.
I normally don’t think a whole lot when I’m jogging – it’s my Zen time. I like to clear my mind of everything and everyone and just jog. I usually concentrate on breathing, or the pressure of my soles beating the concrete over and over again. Sometimes I’ll stare at the lake, a shimmering sea of diamonds dancing below the early morning sun. Or I’ll follow the yellow line on the edge of the bike path like it's a rope pulling me to safety. But for some reason I wasn’t able to zone out today. I was noticing things.
The first thing I noticed was the trash. Everywhere I turned there were mounds of garbage - refuse people leave in the sand when they come to the beach. It actually disgusted me to think of the thousands of people enjoying the beach without throwing away their plastic cups, paper plates, and barbecue rib bones. Seagulls fluttered about noisily, pecking at the mess and shitting all over the sand where people would be spreading out their towels later in the afternoon. There ought to be a law against littering, I thought...before remembering that there ARE laws against littering. People just don’t care enough to obey them, and the result is a filthy public beach.
I noticed park district workers in jeans and work boots climbing off their trucks to begin a long day in the sun. I suddenly remembered back to when I worked for the park district, and later the highway department. We were always the first ones to work in the morning, our trucks and tractors rambling down paved park paths in search of a little shade. The whole day was spent mowing, weeding, painting, and cleaning up after people whose parents never taught them how. It was a thankless job that paid okay for a kid in college trying to scrape together some cash over the summer. These guys were clearly full-timers and I wondered how they made ends meet.
I noticed a woman hugging a massive tree. She was in her late fifties and wore purple sweats, a blue visor and broad black sunglasses. As I jogged past her I tried not to stare, but had to look to be sure she was actually doing what I thought she was doing. And she was. Her arms only made it half way around the cracked bark of this giant, with her cheek pressed lovingly against its side. This was no environmentalist, I thought. This was someone who had lost someone special…someone clinging to a past she refused let go, likely visiting a place she and a loved one had spent time together. I felt sad for her – but happy for the tree.
I noticed a homeless man slumped forward on a park bench in the shade. His head hung forward and he appeared to be sleeping. He’d positioned himself carefully in this manner to avoid being roused by officers on bike patrol. A bottle in a paper bag peered up at him from the ground between his feet – waiting for him to wake and welcome another hot day with a warm gulp of cheap poison.
I noticed the thick black discharge from the exhaust of a city bus and wondered how this kind of pollution was tolerated. The soot was so thick I thought I could see it fall and settle on nearby park benches. A rancid smell cloaked everyone and everything within 50 yards as it hissed and sputtered slowly down the street toward its next stop. This made me notice all of the other cars on the road and I thought of how each one was emitting similarly noxious fumes – most of which were just as harmful to the environment, only less visible.
I made the turn at Fullerton and jogged back home, my eyes to the path so I wouldn’t notice anything else. But it wasn’t long before I was looking around again. I noticed more trash, pollution, homelessness, and human suffering. People sleeping on the ground. Bottles, wrappers, and glass every ten feet. A soft gray haze oozing like a bubble of dirt around Chicago’s majestic skyline. A woman crying in a parked car. Here I was in one of the richest neighborhoods of one of the largest cities in one of the greatest nations in the history of civilization – and I felt surrounded by filth and misery.
Life has always been a struggle. From our earliest days, we've been fighting the elements, disease, pollution, poverty, and one another to make it. And those of us here today have made it. We are the result of thousands and thousands of years of people making it - somehow. But now we're making it a mess. A sting lyric buzzed into my head: "What good is a used up world and how can it be worth having?" In fact, my whole morning experience felt vaguely familiar, so when I got home I looked up the song:
All This Time
I looked out across the river today
I saw a city in the fog and an old church tower
Where the seagulls play
I saw the sad shire horses walking home
In the sodium light
I saw two priests on the ferry
October geese on a cold winter's night
And all this time, the river flowed
Endlessly to the sea.
Two priests came round our house tonight
One young, one old, to offer prayers for the dying
To serve the final rite
One to learn, one to teach
Which way the cold wind blows
Fussing and flapping in priestly black
Like a murder of crows
And all this time, the river flowed
Endlessly to the sea
If I had my way
I'd take a boat from the river and I'd bury the old man
I'd bury him at sea
Blessed are the poor, for they shall inherit the earth
Better to be poor than a fat man in the eye of a needle
And as these words were spoken I swear I hear The old man laughing
'What good is a used up world, and how could it be worth having'
And all this time the river flowed
Endlessly like a silent tear
And all this time the river flowed
Father, if Jesus exists, then how come he never lived here.
The teacher told us, the Romans built this place
They built a wall and a temple, an edge of the empire Garrison town
They lived and they died, they prayed to their gods
But the stone gods did not make a sound
And their empire crumbled, 'til all that was left
Were the stones the workmen found
And all this time the river flowed
In the falling light of a northern sun
If I had my way I'd take a boat from the river
Men go crazy in congregations
But they only get better
One by one One by one...
****
There is truth in history. Feels like we have ignored it long enough.
The first thing I noticed when I pushed through the revolving door downstairs was the heat. Seems the scientists are onto something here – it definitely feels hotter than normal these days. Here it was in the mid 80’s at 7am – and oppressively humid. Yes, temperatures have been fluctuating cyclically for millenia...but scientists say current trends are unprecedented in over 650,000 years according to measurable data on the global climate. But the oil lobby spends a lot of money and spins a lot of bullshit to keep doubt circulating in the mainstream media, so it's unlikely anyone will take these record highs seriously.
I loped down the steps and hopped into a slow trot, pushing play on my MP3 player and picking up the pace as the Dandy Warhols fired up Bohemian Like You.
I normally don’t think a whole lot when I’m jogging – it’s my Zen time. I like to clear my mind of everything and everyone and just jog. I usually concentrate on breathing, or the pressure of my soles beating the concrete over and over again. Sometimes I’ll stare at the lake, a shimmering sea of diamonds dancing below the early morning sun. Or I’ll follow the yellow line on the edge of the bike path like it's a rope pulling me to safety. But for some reason I wasn’t able to zone out today. I was noticing things.
The first thing I noticed was the trash. Everywhere I turned there were mounds of garbage - refuse people leave in the sand when they come to the beach. It actually disgusted me to think of the thousands of people enjoying the beach without throwing away their plastic cups, paper plates, and barbecue rib bones. Seagulls fluttered about noisily, pecking at the mess and shitting all over the sand where people would be spreading out their towels later in the afternoon. There ought to be a law against littering, I thought...before remembering that there ARE laws against littering. People just don’t care enough to obey them, and the result is a filthy public beach.
I noticed park district workers in jeans and work boots climbing off their trucks to begin a long day in the sun. I suddenly remembered back to when I worked for the park district, and later the highway department. We were always the first ones to work in the morning, our trucks and tractors rambling down paved park paths in search of a little shade. The whole day was spent mowing, weeding, painting, and cleaning up after people whose parents never taught them how. It was a thankless job that paid okay for a kid in college trying to scrape together some cash over the summer. These guys were clearly full-timers and I wondered how they made ends meet.
I noticed a woman hugging a massive tree. She was in her late fifties and wore purple sweats, a blue visor and broad black sunglasses. As I jogged past her I tried not to stare, but had to look to be sure she was actually doing what I thought she was doing. And she was. Her arms only made it half way around the cracked bark of this giant, with her cheek pressed lovingly against its side. This was no environmentalist, I thought. This was someone who had lost someone special…someone clinging to a past she refused let go, likely visiting a place she and a loved one had spent time together. I felt sad for her – but happy for the tree.
I noticed a homeless man slumped forward on a park bench in the shade. His head hung forward and he appeared to be sleeping. He’d positioned himself carefully in this manner to avoid being roused by officers on bike patrol. A bottle in a paper bag peered up at him from the ground between his feet – waiting for him to wake and welcome another hot day with a warm gulp of cheap poison.
I noticed the thick black discharge from the exhaust of a city bus and wondered how this kind of pollution was tolerated. The soot was so thick I thought I could see it fall and settle on nearby park benches. A rancid smell cloaked everyone and everything within 50 yards as it hissed and sputtered slowly down the street toward its next stop. This made me notice all of the other cars on the road and I thought of how each one was emitting similarly noxious fumes – most of which were just as harmful to the environment, only less visible.
I made the turn at Fullerton and jogged back home, my eyes to the path so I wouldn’t notice anything else. But it wasn’t long before I was looking around again. I noticed more trash, pollution, homelessness, and human suffering. People sleeping on the ground. Bottles, wrappers, and glass every ten feet. A soft gray haze oozing like a bubble of dirt around Chicago’s majestic skyline. A woman crying in a parked car. Here I was in one of the richest neighborhoods of one of the largest cities in one of the greatest nations in the history of civilization – and I felt surrounded by filth and misery.
Life has always been a struggle. From our earliest days, we've been fighting the elements, disease, pollution, poverty, and one another to make it. And those of us here today have made it. We are the result of thousands and thousands of years of people making it - somehow. But now we're making it a mess. A sting lyric buzzed into my head: "What good is a used up world and how can it be worth having?" In fact, my whole morning experience felt vaguely familiar, so when I got home I looked up the song:
All This Time
I looked out across the river today
I saw a city in the fog and an old church tower
Where the seagulls play
I saw the sad shire horses walking home
In the sodium light
I saw two priests on the ferry
October geese on a cold winter's night
And all this time, the river flowed
Endlessly to the sea.
Two priests came round our house tonight
One young, one old, to offer prayers for the dying
To serve the final rite
One to learn, one to teach
Which way the cold wind blows
Fussing and flapping in priestly black
Like a murder of crows
And all this time, the river flowed
Endlessly to the sea
If I had my way
I'd take a boat from the river and I'd bury the old man
I'd bury him at sea
Blessed are the poor, for they shall inherit the earth
Better to be poor than a fat man in the eye of a needle
And as these words were spoken I swear I hear The old man laughing
'What good is a used up world, and how could it be worth having'
And all this time the river flowed
Endlessly like a silent tear
And all this time the river flowed
Father, if Jesus exists, then how come he never lived here.
The teacher told us, the Romans built this place
They built a wall and a temple, an edge of the empire Garrison town
They lived and they died, they prayed to their gods
But the stone gods did not make a sound
And their empire crumbled, 'til all that was left
Were the stones the workmen found
And all this time the river flowed
In the falling light of a northern sun
If I had my way I'd take a boat from the river
Men go crazy in congregations
But they only get better
One by one One by one...
****
There is truth in history. Feels like we have ignored it long enough.
MAY THE SCHWARZ BE WITH YOU
What's in a name? This dude apparently wants a new one and is willing to pay for a good one. He'll even pay YOU if you can recommend a name he likes.
Is it worth $25,000 to submit a name? I'd say so. He's going to narrow the list down to his 10 favorites and let the public vote. whichever one they choose will become his new legal name. Not sure what exactly he's going for here, but it's certainly worth a couple minutes of your time. And I thought naming my left nut was hard...
Is it worth $25,000 to submit a name? I'd say so. He's going to narrow the list down to his 10 favorites and let the public vote. whichever one they choose will become his new legal name. Not sure what exactly he's going for here, but it's certainly worth a couple minutes of your time. And I thought naming my left nut was hard...
BEING GEORGE BUSHOVICH
Here’s a short movie clip that goes a long way toward explaining what the hell is going on in the White House.
It's in German, but hilarious.
It's in German, but hilarious.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
GLOBAL POPULATION LEADERS
At a glance.
China 1,306,313,800
India 1,080,264,400
USA 295,734,100
Indonesia 241,973,900
Brazil 186,112,800
Pakistan 162,419,900
Bangladesh 144,319,600
Russia 143,420,300
Nigeria 128,772,000
Japan 127,417,200
Mexico 106,202,900
Philippines 87,857,500
Vietnam 83,535,600
Germany 82,431,400
Egypt 77,505,800
Ethiopia 73,053,300
Turkey 69,660,600
Iran 68,017,900
Thailand 65,444,400
France 60,656,200
UK 60,441,500
Looks like we've got a lot of fucking to do to catch up. Tell the bartender to keep the beers coming...
China 1,306,313,800
India 1,080,264,400
USA 295,734,100
Indonesia 241,973,900
Brazil 186,112,800
Pakistan 162,419,900
Bangladesh 144,319,600
Russia 143,420,300
Nigeria 128,772,000
Japan 127,417,200
Mexico 106,202,900
Philippines 87,857,500
Vietnam 83,535,600
Germany 82,431,400
Egypt 77,505,800
Ethiopia 73,053,300
Turkey 69,660,600
Iran 68,017,900
Thailand 65,444,400
France 60,656,200
UK 60,441,500
Looks like we've got a lot of fucking to do to catch up. Tell the bartender to keep the beers coming...
THINGS I WONDER
Would the war on terror end if America bombed Israel?
I know it's unlikely that this would ever happen, but think about it. We'd instantly become best friends with every single country in the Middle East. Islamists, Arabs, Muslims, Sunni, Shia, blah blah blah - all the religious and ethnic groups in the region would be completely in love with us. They'd probably give us all the oil we want for as long as we want it.
I don't advocate this, of course, just thinking out loud. Seems in many ways our curious allegiance to Israel hurts us more than it helps. If we weren't in their back pocket (and they in ours), we could take the 3 BILLION dollars a year that we GIVE them for no good reason and do something nice here at home - like get some new curtains, cure cancer, or teach little Johnny to fucking read.
I know it's unlikely that this would ever happen, but think about it. We'd instantly become best friends with every single country in the Middle East. Islamists, Arabs, Muslims, Sunni, Shia, blah blah blah - all the religious and ethnic groups in the region would be completely in love with us. They'd probably give us all the oil we want for as long as we want it.
I don't advocate this, of course, just thinking out loud. Seems in many ways our curious allegiance to Israel hurts us more than it helps. If we weren't in their back pocket (and they in ours), we could take the 3 BILLION dollars a year that we GIVE them for no good reason and do something nice here at home - like get some new curtains, cure cancer, or teach little Johnny to fucking read.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
MY CUBICLE
This one has been going around for awhile and is certainly worth a mention here. It’s a parody of the hot James Blunt single ‘You’re Beautiful.’ This one’s called My Cubicle and it's pretty sweet.
AAAHHHHHHHHHHHH
Is there anything quite like a cold can of beer in the middle of a hot shower? Let me answer that for you. No. There is nothing like it. The hot stream running over your head, a cold can pressed to your lips, that stinging bubbly sensation tickling your tongue as you stand completely naked in a steamy bath.
Sometimes I really miss college.
Sometimes I really miss college.
Monday, July 24, 2006
A SHORTS STORY
What's the farthest you've gone outside of your house without realizing you're not wearing any pants?
I have a new record. I've walked out into my hallway countless times before realizing I should put some pants on. Even made it all the way to the elevator once. But that's nothing compared to what I pulled off today.
Today I jogged half way to North Avenue Beach in a pair of red Hanes boxer shorts before realizing that I had not put on shorts. It was a simple mistake. I was changing clothes after work and the phone rang. It was a work call and I ended up sitting down to take some notes. I guess I pulled on my shoes one while I was sitting there, and when the call ended, I stood up, grabbed my keys, and headed out. Shortsless in Chicago.
If the doorman thinks he's getting a tip from me this holiday season, he's sorely mistaken.
I have a new record. I've walked out into my hallway countless times before realizing I should put some pants on. Even made it all the way to the elevator once. But that's nothing compared to what I pulled off today.
Today I jogged half way to North Avenue Beach in a pair of red Hanes boxer shorts before realizing that I had not put on shorts. It was a simple mistake. I was changing clothes after work and the phone rang. It was a work call and I ended up sitting down to take some notes. I guess I pulled on my shoes one while I was sitting there, and when the call ended, I stood up, grabbed my keys, and headed out. Shortsless in Chicago.
If the doorman thinks he's getting a tip from me this holiday season, he's sorely mistaken.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
NOTES ON BEING ACCOUNTABLE
A bunch of folks were out of the office last week on business, so I got a chance to try on a few more hats than usual - including that of receptionist. After working here for nearly two years, I finally figured out how to transfer a phone call to someone's voicemail. At least I THINK those calls went to voice mail.
Anyhow, one of the roles I had to fill was that of Account Executive. These are the go-between folks who manage jobs internally, while setting and meeting the expectations of clients. To those of us in the creative department (where the rubber meets the road), the Account Executive position has always appeared to be little more than a lot of photocopying. These folks are always on the phone, or sending out e-mails to make sure people are getting what they need on time. They're typing up schedules and sending out estimates and following up with vendors. You know - office work. But I found out firsthand last week that it's actually a lot more than that - and a lot more stressful.
You see, clients want two things: cheaper and faster. That's it. Doesn't matter how big of a deal you're already cutting them, they always want it cheaper. And faster. And when you explain that faster may compromise the quality, they ask you if that means they can get it cheaper. And when you explain that getting it cheaper means they'll be compromising the quality, they ask if they can get it faster. And if you give them cheaper, they'll still ask for faster. And if you give them faster, they'll still ask for cheaper. Business is brutal.
In most cases, quality is a forethought and an afterthought. Clients come in saying how nice they want something to be, and how they're willing to spend a little money to get it, and even give you all the time you need to come up with something that kicks much ass. But as soon as you get started, they want it done yesterday, and for a fraction of the price.
So last week, there I was - Associate Creative Director turned Account Executive - sending out e-mails and following up with vendors. Meanwhile, the clients were all asking for the same shit: can I get it sooner, and can I get it cheaper?
The creative department person in me wanted to lecture them on what it means to use a professional marketing firm. I wanted to explain how a recent college graduate freelancing from his parents' basement could probably have something done by tomorrow, and for a tenth of the price - and that it would likely not achieve the desired marketing objectives. But I bit my tongue and defaulted to the Account Executive catch phrase: "Let me get back to you on that."
And as difficult as that was, I realized that clients are only one front in this war. The Account Executive also gets a lot of pushback from the inside. Every time they try to get something cheaper and faster for their client, the folks at the agency throw their hands up and scream at them.
"We're already turning this around in a week - and we're actually losing money on it! Push the date back and up the estimate!"
So the Account Executive has to slink back to the computer and let the client know that we're doing the best we can to get them everything they need as soon as they can, and as cost-efficiently as possible.
In short, being an Account Executive sucks and I have a newfound appreciation for the people who do it well.
Anyhow, one of the roles I had to fill was that of Account Executive. These are the go-between folks who manage jobs internally, while setting and meeting the expectations of clients. To those of us in the creative department (where the rubber meets the road), the Account Executive position has always appeared to be little more than a lot of photocopying. These folks are always on the phone, or sending out e-mails to make sure people are getting what they need on time. They're typing up schedules and sending out estimates and following up with vendors. You know - office work. But I found out firsthand last week that it's actually a lot more than that - and a lot more stressful.
You see, clients want two things: cheaper and faster. That's it. Doesn't matter how big of a deal you're already cutting them, they always want it cheaper. And faster. And when you explain that faster may compromise the quality, they ask you if that means they can get it cheaper. And when you explain that getting it cheaper means they'll be compromising the quality, they ask if they can get it faster. And if you give them cheaper, they'll still ask for faster. And if you give them faster, they'll still ask for cheaper. Business is brutal.
In most cases, quality is a forethought and an afterthought. Clients come in saying how nice they want something to be, and how they're willing to spend a little money to get it, and even give you all the time you need to come up with something that kicks much ass. But as soon as you get started, they want it done yesterday, and for a fraction of the price.
So last week, there I was - Associate Creative Director turned Account Executive - sending out e-mails and following up with vendors. Meanwhile, the clients were all asking for the same shit: can I get it sooner, and can I get it cheaper?
The creative department person in me wanted to lecture them on what it means to use a professional marketing firm. I wanted to explain how a recent college graduate freelancing from his parents' basement could probably have something done by tomorrow, and for a tenth of the price - and that it would likely not achieve the desired marketing objectives. But I bit my tongue and defaulted to the Account Executive catch phrase: "Let me get back to you on that."
And as difficult as that was, I realized that clients are only one front in this war. The Account Executive also gets a lot of pushback from the inside. Every time they try to get something cheaper and faster for their client, the folks at the agency throw their hands up and scream at them.
"We're already turning this around in a week - and we're actually losing money on it! Push the date back and up the estimate!"
So the Account Executive has to slink back to the computer and let the client know that we're doing the best we can to get them everything they need as soon as they can, and as cost-efficiently as possible.
In short, being an Account Executive sucks and I have a newfound appreciation for the people who do it well.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
DEFINING MOMENTS IN PRESIDENTIAL HISTORY
The entire Bush presidency captured in the snap of a photo.
Friday, July 14, 2006
THE TRUTH ABOUT LIES
One of the things I love about this Yahoo Answers thing is reading what other people write. For example, someone wanted to know why people lie. An earnest question that deserved a thoughtful response.
But as I started wading through the answers, I was shocked to read some of the crap people were offering up. Many of the responses were written by people who were clearly under the impression they had never told a lie in their life. People were ripping on people who tell lies, casting stones from within their glass houses, accusing liars of having genetic deficiencies and sociopathic tendencies. Yes, really. Someone actually wrote that we lie because of a "flaw in our genetic makeup."
I started to wonder if this Yahoo Answers thing was a good idea after all, what with all the garbage being passed around as fact. So I decided to pile some garbage of my own into the heap, figuring my garbage would be a little easier to sort through, and, hopefully, a little closer to the truth.
So why DO people lie?
Flaws in our genetic make up? I don't think so. Let's not make this out to be any more complicated than it is.
Lying is a form of manipulation. It stems from our desire to exert influence over our surroundings. We lie when it is to our advantage to do so - to cover things up, to protect our reputation, to get something we want, to hurt people, to make us look better, etc. There are plenty of specific reasons people lie, but they all have to do with one thing: control.
Lying is learned behavior. Even while our parents may teach us that lying is wrong, we all practice it in some form, and starting at an early age. Most of us even lie to ourselves and don't realize we're doing it. Or, we lie to our loved ones because we know the truth would hurt them. Lying is natural, even if we feel guilty when we do it.
Lying is a communications strategy. Many believe a poor one, but one that has been around since we first started speaking to one another, and one that doesn't figure to go away any time soon. There's too much value in being able to shape the perceptions of others with a few words, albiet false ones. And there is a great deal of power in a good mistruth; the control afforded by a good lie is too often too tempting for even the most well-intended individuals.
Part of growing up is learning the power of a good lie. Children experiment with lying as soon as they realize they can influence the behavior of the people around them with the things they say. Most of the time they are reprimanded for it and told that lying is not a successful strategy because the truth is always a better policy. Think Peter and the Wolf.
But as we get older, we come to understand that the truth hurts. So we judiciously adopt a policy of telling the truth when it makes sense, and lying when we need to in order to get the things we want - without hurting the people we love if possble. The risk in lying, of course, is that once a lie has been discovered, it becomes difficult for people to trust you. That's why people will go to great lengths to protect a good lie, often telling more lies to cover up the original one. What a tangled web we weave when at first we practice to deceive.
There's a lot of value in giving someone our word. And when there's no longer currency in that, we become powerless. So while lying can afford us a little control now and then, those who do it as a matter of custom do not tend to fare well in the long term.
In today's interconnected world - a world in which we depend on the actions of others to survive - lying is central to the human experience. This is not to paint all of humanity as a caldron of deception, but let's at least acknowledge the difficulty we would encounter living life out loud. If we always spoke exactly what we thought, no one would have anything to do with us. That's because our self-interests often conflict with the self-intrerests of those around us. And even the most trustworthy among us are capable of withholding the truth now and again if it is in their self-interest.
But don't despair - while lying is normal, it is not the norm. Most people tell the truth most of the time. Just be careful who you choose to believe and when. Ask yourself what's in it for them, as life is about incentive. If the incentive is high enough, people will lie to you. And you will lie to them.
But as I started wading through the answers, I was shocked to read some of the crap people were offering up. Many of the responses were written by people who were clearly under the impression they had never told a lie in their life. People were ripping on people who tell lies, casting stones from within their glass houses, accusing liars of having genetic deficiencies and sociopathic tendencies. Yes, really. Someone actually wrote that we lie because of a "flaw in our genetic makeup."
I started to wonder if this Yahoo Answers thing was a good idea after all, what with all the garbage being passed around as fact. So I decided to pile some garbage of my own into the heap, figuring my garbage would be a little easier to sort through, and, hopefully, a little closer to the truth.
So why DO people lie?
Flaws in our genetic make up? I don't think so. Let's not make this out to be any more complicated than it is.
Lying is a form of manipulation. It stems from our desire to exert influence over our surroundings. We lie when it is to our advantage to do so - to cover things up, to protect our reputation, to get something we want, to hurt people, to make us look better, etc. There are plenty of specific reasons people lie, but they all have to do with one thing: control.
Lying is learned behavior. Even while our parents may teach us that lying is wrong, we all practice it in some form, and starting at an early age. Most of us even lie to ourselves and don't realize we're doing it. Or, we lie to our loved ones because we know the truth would hurt them. Lying is natural, even if we feel guilty when we do it.
Lying is a communications strategy. Many believe a poor one, but one that has been around since we first started speaking to one another, and one that doesn't figure to go away any time soon. There's too much value in being able to shape the perceptions of others with a few words, albiet false ones. And there is a great deal of power in a good mistruth; the control afforded by a good lie is too often too tempting for even the most well-intended individuals.
Part of growing up is learning the power of a good lie. Children experiment with lying as soon as they realize they can influence the behavior of the people around them with the things they say. Most of the time they are reprimanded for it and told that lying is not a successful strategy because the truth is always a better policy. Think Peter and the Wolf.
But as we get older, we come to understand that the truth hurts. So we judiciously adopt a policy of telling the truth when it makes sense, and lying when we need to in order to get the things we want - without hurting the people we love if possble. The risk in lying, of course, is that once a lie has been discovered, it becomes difficult for people to trust you. That's why people will go to great lengths to protect a good lie, often telling more lies to cover up the original one. What a tangled web we weave when at first we practice to deceive.
There's a lot of value in giving someone our word. And when there's no longer currency in that, we become powerless. So while lying can afford us a little control now and then, those who do it as a matter of custom do not tend to fare well in the long term.
In today's interconnected world - a world in which we depend on the actions of others to survive - lying is central to the human experience. This is not to paint all of humanity as a caldron of deception, but let's at least acknowledge the difficulty we would encounter living life out loud. If we always spoke exactly what we thought, no one would have anything to do with us. That's because our self-interests often conflict with the self-intrerests of those around us. And even the most trustworthy among us are capable of withholding the truth now and again if it is in their self-interest.
But don't despair - while lying is normal, it is not the norm. Most people tell the truth most of the time. Just be careful who you choose to believe and when. Ask yourself what's in it for them, as life is about incentive. If the incentive is high enough, people will lie to you. And you will lie to them.
FREUDIAN TYPOS
Who wants a bare hug?
Oh my, I'm so embarrassed I just typed that! That's not what I meant at ALL.
Or was it? Hmmmmmm.....
*blushing*
Oh my, I'm so embarrassed I just typed that! That's not what I meant at ALL.
Or was it? Hmmmmmm.....
*blushing*
Thursday, July 13, 2006
NO BALLS, NO BABIES
Man, do I love answering the peoples' questions. Love it, love it, love it. It's so sweet. Just wish I had some milk to wash it all down. Here's my latest answer, which was rated best.
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"Do Europeans and Americans castrate their boys? The Chinese do. Read Chinese history."
Best Answer - Chosen by Asker (my reply)
Actually we DO castrate males in our society. The ritual is called "marriage," after which a man's testicles become the permanent property of his wife.
Asker's Rating:
***** (5 stars)
WOW !!!
This is the BEST answer i have ever seen
Thanks for enlightening me !!!!
****************************
Another satisfied customer. I really do amuse myself. If only you people loved me half as much as I love myself.
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"Do Europeans and Americans castrate their boys? The Chinese do. Read Chinese history."
Best Answer - Chosen by Asker (my reply)
Actually we DO castrate males in our society. The ritual is called "marriage," after which a man's testicles become the permanent property of his wife.
Asker's Rating:
***** (5 stars)
WOW !!!
This is the BEST answer i have ever seen
Thanks for enlightening me !!!!
****************************
Another satisfied customer. I really do amuse myself. If only you people loved me half as much as I love myself.
RAYS OF HOPELESSNESS
Here’s a mind-numbing game sure to leave you swearing.
It’s a brainteaser in which a number of cartoon figures take turns standing up and sitting down, depending on which ones you feel like clicking. The goal is to get them all to stand up at the same time. Sound easy?
The first couple were pretty simple - I got them in 5 or 6 clicks. Then it starts to get a little more interesting. I would give you a hint, but I want you to be as lost as I was when I started.
Check it out!
It’s a brainteaser in which a number of cartoon figures take turns standing up and sitting down, depending on which ones you feel like clicking. The goal is to get them all to stand up at the same time. Sound easy?
The first couple were pretty simple - I got them in 5 or 6 clicks. Then it starts to get a little more interesting. I would give you a hint, but I want you to be as lost as I was when I started.
Check it out!
THE MORE YOU KNOW
If you’re a fan of the Office, you’ve got to check out these public service announcements.
First you have to sit through my favorite FedEx Kinko's commercial. But after that, click on the Fake PSA's link. Good stuff in there.
First you have to sit through my favorite FedEx Kinko's commercial. But after that, click on the Fake PSA's link. Good stuff in there.
LEBANONSENSE
I'd like everyone to imagine something for a moment.
Let's imagine that there are a bunch of people from Mexico sneaking into our country. Okay, so that's not much of a stretch. But let's imagine our government decides to send some troops down to patrol the Rio Grande in an effort to plug the leak. A little extreme? Maybe. Others might say necessary. Regardless, let's just imagine that's the scenario. Troops on the border.
Now imagine one night a handful of Mexicans sneak across the border and kidnap a couple of American soldiers. They announce they are holding them for ransom and make a number of ludicrous demands that could never be met - like releasing all people of Mexican descent from jail, or making the burro our national equine.
To solve the crisis, our government declares the abduction an act of war and starts launching airstrikes against unrelated targets in Mexican cities, demanding the Mexican government be held responsible for returning our soldiers. We roll tanks across the border and start shelling everything in sight. I know - this seems a little far-fetched, because even the most war-hungry nation on the planet wouldn't react in such an irresponsibly volatile way. It's completely insane, right? We'd probably go through the United Nations first and accuse Mexico of engineering weapons of mass emigration, then gather a coalition of reluctant, well-funded allies to support a few calculated military strikes and a coup d'etaco.
The point to this geopolitical finger painting is that it isn't far removed from what's going on in the Middle East right now. TODAY.
Israel has, for all intents and purposes, invaded Lebanon - bombing airports and other targets of interest - following the abduction of military personnel on the border. Granted, they have every right to be mad as hell, but a full scale military invasion? That's like pouring rocket fuel on a hibachi. This wasn't the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand here. It was a random act of terrorism. How is this response justified? And why is the U.S. supporting Israel's incursion into Lebanon as an act of self-defense?
It is becoming all too clear that the precedent we set in pre-emptively invading Iraq may have unintended consequences we never could have imagined.
Put me in charge. New policy decision: Israel can do whatever it wants, but we're staying out of it.
Let's imagine that there are a bunch of people from Mexico sneaking into our country. Okay, so that's not much of a stretch. But let's imagine our government decides to send some troops down to patrol the Rio Grande in an effort to plug the leak. A little extreme? Maybe. Others might say necessary. Regardless, let's just imagine that's the scenario. Troops on the border.
Now imagine one night a handful of Mexicans sneak across the border and kidnap a couple of American soldiers. They announce they are holding them for ransom and make a number of ludicrous demands that could never be met - like releasing all people of Mexican descent from jail, or making the burro our national equine.
To solve the crisis, our government declares the abduction an act of war and starts launching airstrikes against unrelated targets in Mexican cities, demanding the Mexican government be held responsible for returning our soldiers. We roll tanks across the border and start shelling everything in sight. I know - this seems a little far-fetched, because even the most war-hungry nation on the planet wouldn't react in such an irresponsibly volatile way. It's completely insane, right? We'd probably go through the United Nations first and accuse Mexico of engineering weapons of mass emigration, then gather a coalition of reluctant, well-funded allies to support a few calculated military strikes and a coup d'etaco.
The point to this geopolitical finger painting is that it isn't far removed from what's going on in the Middle East right now. TODAY.
Israel has, for all intents and purposes, invaded Lebanon - bombing airports and other targets of interest - following the abduction of military personnel on the border. Granted, they have every right to be mad as hell, but a full scale military invasion? That's like pouring rocket fuel on a hibachi. This wasn't the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand here. It was a random act of terrorism. How is this response justified? And why is the U.S. supporting Israel's incursion into Lebanon as an act of self-defense?
It is becoming all too clear that the precedent we set in pre-emptively invading Iraq may have unintended consequences we never could have imagined.
Put me in charge. New policy decision: Israel can do whatever it wants, but we're staying out of it.
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