From the always-imitated, never-duplicated Random Thought Generator:
India and Pakistan are on the verge of what might turn out to be a nuclear war. The US Defense Information Agency says that, in a worst-case scenario, 17 million people could potentially be incinerated. Why, then, is CNN subjecting us to stories about whether or not the Russians will allow Lance Bass (of N*SYNC infamy) to go into space??
Attorney General John Ashcroft is celebrating being able to "take the leash" off the FBI. Am I the only one disturbed the mental picture this creates??
The World Cup, a quadrennial sporting event bigger than the Olympics, the Super Bowl, the Stanley Cup, the World Series, and the NBA Finals combined began today. Did anyone here actually even notice?? By the way, itís a SOCCER tournament, in case any of yíall were wonderingÖ.
A gunman in Long Beach, CA killed two people and wounded four others inside a grocery store before police shot and killed him. Later, police discovered that the gunman had kept two decomposing bodies in his apartment. What, he couldnít collect coins like normal people??
The Indiana Jones saga is scheduled to be coming to a big screen near you for the fourth time. There is no title yet for the film, scheduled to be released in 2005. How about this for a working title: ďIndiana Jones and the Lost WheelchairĒ?
Houston rapper Carlos Coy (ďSouth Park MexicanĒ) was sentenced to 45 years in prison for molesting a nine-year-old girl. Though he was only on trial for one count of child molesting, it became clear during the trial that the man has a history of sexually preying on children. The man had his day in court and was convicted. Now his family and friends are saying that he is being persecuted because he is a celebrity. Please, crying me a f^%$#*&g riverÖ.
Former Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl is a father. Itís just sad that he isnít alive to savor the birth of his first child, a boy. His wife, Marianne, had the baby in Paris. Mother and child are apparently doing fine- or at least as well as could be expected under the circumstances.
Join me tomorrow as we examine why Iíll never eat lunch in this town againÖ.
by mg at 12:43 PM on May 30, 2002
Iím in the midst of watching Waking Life. This is my third attempt at the movie; I feel asleep the first two times, both within the first 15 minutes. Iím about 45 minutes into it now, but I had to take this break, so this third isnít going, but not great.
Sure, the movie is visually stunning. If this were a 4-minute Radiohead video, Iíd be creaming my shorts. Instead, it is a 2-hour crackpot philosophy lesson. Still, the Ethan Hawke vignette, about reincarnation, recycled souls and collective unconscious got me thinking about something.
If you believe in such a thing as collective unconsciousness exists, that is, a memory shared by all humans and passed on from generation to generation within our very genetic makeup, what role do women play?
Theoretically, women would have no roll in shaping this collective unconsciousness. If this memory is passed via DNA, the memories a women collects during her lifetime are not passed on to her offspring because when a female is born, she already carries all the eggs she will ever produce. Males, on the other hand, constantly produce little swimmers.
Since women already have all their eggs at their birth, what effects them throughout their lives does not change their genetic makeup. Of course, someone will likely say that a maleís genetic makeup doesnít change over their lifespan either, but the simple truth is that spermies I produce at age 30 would unconsciously possess all my life experiences to that point, since they are produced after Iíve lived those experiences.
Therefore, a zygote would contain the collective experiences of the father at the age of the sperm creation, and the collective experiences of the mother at the age of egg creation Ė which happened before she was even born.
Philosophically, this would imply women have no hand in shaping the collective, unconscious knowledge of humanity. Discuss.
One of the things that I discovered during my recent trip to Minnesota is that 20 years is a very long time. As we grow and change, memory tends to become rather elastic. It was fascinating to see how my memories of events from my college days matched up with the memories of my classmates. In some cases, it was as if we werenít even talking about the same events. Perhaps, in the end, we werenít, but Iím not sure that it really made any difference.
It was nice to get away, although the trip wasnít all fun and games. I had to get through a memorial service for a friend and classmate killed in the attack on the World Trade Center. I also discovered that another friend and classmate had survived the attack on the Pentagon, though how he did that is nothing short of a miracle. The nose of the plane that hit the Pentagon passed underneath his office, and poked out of the wall between B & C Rings. To see the picture of the hole left by the nose, and then realize that the office window directly above it was Jimís, well, what CAN you say? Heís got a long recovery ahead of him, but he is alive, thankfully.
When I decided last summer that it would be fun to go to my 20-year reunion, I never expected to be faced with two different and yet vivid reminders of our mortality. I have to admit that I left with a new appreciation for the fragility of life. Indeed, itís true; none of us are going to live forever.
Iím grateful to have had the experience to revisit my college years. I was able to spend a weekend walking down memory lane, and I realized how truly grateful I am for having had the experience. The person I am now is due in large part to the four years I spent at Macalester College. I arrived there a small town kid from the North Woods of Minnesota. I left with a greater degree of maturity, education, and curiosity about the world around me. The curiosity has served me well over the years. More than anything, though, I learned how to learn- and that is something I will always be thankful for.
by mg at 03:31 AM on May 29, 2002
When Rannie come to visit next month, Iím planning to throw a party. It is as much for him as it is because Iíve lived in my apartment for more than two years and never thrown a party before. But donít tell him that.
Anyway, amongst my friends, it is customary to have some sort of theme to every party. The best of those was the ďFight ClubĒ Party. Everyone was encouraged to dress as their favorite character. I went as Tyler Durden, of course. I wore some funky pants, a pair of sunglasses, and the red leather jacket I found in a thrift store in Boston and bought specifically because it reminded me of Fight Club, which Iíd seen only the night before. Even more coincidentally, I had been in Boston attending a conference and staying with a friend who had just moved back to New York a few weeks earlier and was the fella who drove me to the party.
Back to the party, there was a support group room, with nametags to fill out, a podium, and a schedule of group meetings tacked up to the door. In the kitchen, you could try you hand at making soap. There were mock fights staged. A friend of mine missed the ďmockĒ part, walked up to me and hit me as hard as she could in the stomach Ė I didnít feel a thing. Anyway, you get the idea.
So, I was talking about something completely unrelated tonight, and Adam mentioned prohibition. We simultaneously realized thatíd be a great theme for the party. We could make every dress up in 20s garb (flappery!), require a password to get in the front door, brew up some grain alcohol in my bathtub, etc.
I donít think Iíll actually use that, since Iím entirely too lazy to put the work in to create the illusion, but as we were discussing, something got stuck in my head. Before the 18th Amendment was passed, there was a bible-thumping teetotalers movement.
I remember one time I was in Chicago, my mom had come out to visit me in Iowa, and she wanted to go to the Al Capone museum (for some insane reason). It really wasnít much of a museum, but they did have this animatronics show that was relatively entertaining, and educational too!
The teetotalers movement included this group of women, one in particular, who were fed up with their men getting drunk, abusive, and being unable to work. Theyíd roam around, vigilante style, smashing up bars. I cannot remember what those women were called. I know they had a name, and I know I used to know that name. Adam, usually knows everything (like the name of the other primates, besides humans, who have sex for pleasure, the bonobos Ė something we were discussing just a few minutes earlier), but even he was stumped on this one.
I tried to Google the answer, but after spending an hour reading through Prohibition history (and listening to way too much Midi ragtime), I gave up. Having to listen to too much Midi will make you give up a lot of things. I very nearly slit my wrists, but realized I could just turn down the volume.
But, the point is, I couldnít find the answer myself, and I know one of you out there has it. So, can anyone want to help a brother out?
And, oh yeah, if youíll happen to be in or around New York June 15th, and would like to attend the first ever Bad Samaritan Bash, let me know.
This weekend I got out of Iowa and headed down to Florida. You're probably jealous (at least those of you that don't live in exotic locales.) Unfortunately, this was a family vacation. My parents, my brother and his wife, and myself, all together for three wonderful days in Florida. Usually, my sister is the element that keeps me sane with my fam, but this weekend it was sans sister, because she was on call.
Apart from minor altercations with the parents, though, everything went surprisingly well. The only lecturing I got was whenever I had an alcoholic beverage (thanks, Mom & Dad, but I can handle having a glass of wine with dinner.) For the most part, my parents didn't try to get us up painfully early in the morning, like they usually do. I dont' know about the rest of you, but when I'm on vacation, I have a personal rule to not get up earlier than I have to when not on vacation. My parents, however, don't seem to have this rule. I can remember many instances of being woken up at 5 a.m. (after a fitful night of sleep, trying to tune out my parents' window-rattling snoring) and being dragged off to see some exciting shopping areas or somesuch. This time, however, it was pretty relaxed. Although we didn't get a day to just lay out and relax, as I would have liked, there was no pre-dawn departures planned.
I would have been thoroughly confused at getting along so well with my parents if the trip hadn't ended on a slightly sour note. As a little special treat and pampering for my hellish past two semesters, my parents got me a first-class ticket to Florida. I loved every minute of it. Great service, decent food, and, of course, free alcohol. The last sour note was my departure at the airport when each of my parents admonished me for several minutes about not drinking too much on the plane, to which I finally exploded and rabidly declared that I never wanted to hear another word on the subject again. I don't think they really got the message, though. My parents are always the type to harp on the same subject over and over until you feel like doing the exact opposite just because you've heard so much about it.
I just hope the next family vacation won't be for a long time. I can handle my siblings, but I think the time limit for getting along with my parents is about 24 hours, tops.
by mg at 10:49 PM on May 27, 2002
Photoshop Contest (link via nowhere in particular)
by mg at 11:59 PM on May 24, 2002
For someone born in the latter half of the 1970s, Iíve always had this immense love for music first sung in the years before I could talk. Iíve always considered the Beatles, Van Morrison, Velvet Underground, and Joni Mitchell (and etcÖ) to be as relevant in my life as just about anything released during my teenage years.
Well, for some reason Brand New Key by Melanie has always been one of my favorite 70s pop tunes. But I couldnít name a single other song she sings. On those rare occasions I'd stumble across Brand New Key (which, shockingly, hasn't been turned into a Burger King commercial yet), I rock out hard. And then I immediately forget about it.
Recently I've been learning about this band called Rasputina. They have this all female, all cello, goth/rock thing going. As Iíve mentioned on more than one occasion, I've got a thing for chick bass players. Well, I've got an even bigger thing for female cello players. There is nothing more attractive than a chick playing the cello.
Rasputina, in addition to their own great material, do this phenomenal cover of the Velvet Underground's All Tomorrow's Parties. They also do a great version of Brand New Key, which is what has sparked my current obsession with the song.
If you've never heard of Melanie, I cant't blame you. She was a one hit wonder if ever there was one. Still, Melanie's career has spanned more than 20 years (with a strange period in the 80s as a sought after TV theme composer - she was responsible for the theme to Beauty and the Beast).
Brand New Key is a song you've surely heard, if only on the AM radio in your parent's old Chevy. And if you haven't heard it, you should seek it out now. Melanie has got a sweet, powerful voice, with just a tinge of Janis Joplin. ďBrand New Key hit number one on the U.S. charts while on its way to becoming a million seller; thanks to its not-so-subtle sexual undertones, the song became a kind of Ďiní dirty joke in some circles, and was even censored on some radio stations, but it also made Melanie one of the top-selling artists of the year 1971." (via AMG)
Here is the chorus:
Well, I got a brand new pair of roller skates You got a brand new key I think that we should get together and try them out you see I been looking around awhile You got something for me Oh! I got a brand new pair of roller skates You got a brand new key
I don't quite see the sexual innuendo, but I can be quite dense that way sometimes. Check out all the lyrics for yourself, and maybe you can explain it to me.
You may remember the song made it's way into Boogie Nights as Roller Girlís theme. If it wasnít sexual before, I think that managed to wrap it up, tighter than Japanese condom on Preakness winner. Damn, with a naked, roller-skated, porn-star Heather Graham involved even a colonoscopy could be sexy.
That George W Bush sure knows how to make enemies.
Yes, it is true that I hated him before because the man is a moron, but I hate him even more now.
For those of you not in the know, some Democrats decided to criticize him for not making the link between very vague intelligence from the FBI and the September 11 thingie. Now, Iíll be the first to come out and say that, with the benefit of hindsight all the clues fit together, but those very same clues beforehand would have made no sense whatsoever. However, instead of sticking with this line, ďsuck my DickĒ Cheney has instead come out and scared the living crap out of half of the US by claiming that ďarabsĒ are renting out apartments to blow up.
This is bad news for me. You see, in an attempt to be closer to campus, I have been searching for an apartment. To live in. ďWhatís the problem there,ď you may say. Well, me being a young male of middle-eastern appearance searching for an apartment has raised a few eyebrows. A lot of men my age tend to go apartment shopping with their girlfriends. Since I donít have one, I usually go by myself, or with a male friend. In the past, people would have just assumed I was gay and gotten over it. Now, however, I keep getting strange questions from paranoid people:
ďHey, whatís in that box?Ē ďUm, my computerÖĒ ďAn explosive computer?Ē ďEr, noÖ itís not an AMDÖĒ
Please, don't get me started on AMDs...
by eric at 03:30 PM on May 22, 2002
Jesus, what a fuck-nozzle I am for not posting for THREE WEEKS.
MG is a kind and generous ... well, I'm not sure what MG's title is around here, but whatever it is, he's kind and generous for not booting out the so called authors here that never write a damn thing. Like me.
Not that I don't have excuses and reasons and rationalizations that would make you weep. But why tell you all that when we can complain about television?
That's right, the TV season is over. Many, many shows that jumped the shark moons ago are finally taking their leave (So long, Ally McX-Files!) and some truly great programs have been pissed away (The Tick, Once and Again, and I think I even heard Andy Richter might not come back.)
Through it all, there was one shining hope for truly quality story telling and thrills, a bold experiment in telling the tale of one full action packed day: Fox's 24. Which, last night, ended it's first season with the most disappointed ending I've seen in years.
First off, let me say that the plot line of the senator and his shrewish, power hungry wife played out to its inevitable conclusion with spectacular results: well acted, well done, and all and all, it was the best part of the program.
The main thrust of the series, however, was all about super-soldier Jack Bauer's trying to keep his family alive for a day as they are held hostage. The first sign that the writers didn't know what the hell they were doing came at around the 1PM hour of the show, when Jack's wife entered a fugue state -- AJA, amnesia right out of the soaps -- and three hours later she was fine (albeit she just watched her former boyfriend get gunned down, but she didn't worry much about him during the rest of the 'day.'
Last week, the show abruptly decided that the second most trusted character on the show would make a good villain. So without any warning, she's suddenly in collusion with the bad guys. They tried to save it last night by showing her on surveillance cameras from earlier in the season doing something very bad, but it was too little, too late. It came off as half-assed and unbelievable. They should have planted that smoking gun much earlier, with much better clues. Even Twin Peaks wasn't this disappointing... well, at least not until its second season.
Back home again, and I must say, be it ever so humbleÖ.
I learned a few things on my trip, some good, some not so good, and some downright maddening. Letís start with the maddening. Why is it that security screeners now have the right to do everything short of a strip search before clearing you to fly? I probably came close to getting arrested in the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport yesterday. Apparently I wasnít blindly cooperating like the rest of the sheep who were there with me. I was only moderately put out until the screener began going through my wallet, looking at my credit cards, and looking at my money.
When he told me to turn around and asked me if I minded if he touched my back, my response was ďYouíre going to anyway, right??Ē Really, what did it matter if I objected? In order for me to be allowed on an airplane, I had to agree to be poked, prodded, and just about everything outside of an actual strip search. I canít recall ever feeling so violated and invaded as I did then.
Meanwhile, as my voice is rising, my poor wife, who by this time had already cleared security, is looking at me with a frightened expression on her face. There she was, watching her husband snap, and wondering if weíd even be allowed to board our plane. Well, I was rude, and I was obnoxious, but I wasnít dangerous. All I wanted was an explanation of why I had to endure being humiliated and violated. Of course, all of the security people looked at me like cows at passing trains, and it was clear I would be getting no answer.
I might- MIGHT- have been able to get through my little nightmare with a minimum of psychic distress had it not been for a young girl there at the same time. She looked at me with must have been a world-record level of naÔvetť , and said, ďThis is what keeps people from hurting us.Ē Ah, the sweet ignorance and cow-like stupidity of youth. After I got over the urge to separate her head (she wasnít using it anyway) from her shoulders, I decided that having a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent would be pointless.
When are we going to realize that all of the added security does little, if anything, to increase the safety of the flying public? All the process does is increase the violation of personal privacy and maximize inconvenience. Security checks are about creating the perception of security, so people will come back and fly. The reality of security is that little, and probably none, of what happened on 9.11 would have been prevented by the current security checks. We are at every bit as much risk now as we were then, but now we FEEL safer. Of course, to feel safe, we now have to be willing to sacrifice our personal liberties. Apparently, most of us are willing to do so without so much as a second thought. God, what sheep we areÖ.
So far, 2002's been a pretty good year. I have a really good job and I work with great people. I passed the Bar Exam. In a week or two I'm filing my first lawsuit - and it's a civil rights action against a police officer (I dream happy dreams of suing policemen who let their control issues get the better of them). I went to Canada and met pretty girls. A new Star Wars film came out and it didn't suck. Hell, I've even been getting my hair cut regularly.
But last week, it went from 'pretty good' to Goddamned Spectacular™! I can hear you asking yourselves, "What could possibly have happened to make this happen? Did he get laid or something?"
Sadly, no. As it happens, I haven't experienced that particular diversion in so long I am beginning to wonder if I didn't just imagine it. That being the case, if that were it Goddamned Spectacular™ would be a significant understatement. So, since that isn't it, you'll have to guess again.
"Okay, so you didn't get laid. A new girlfriend, then? A chance to maybe get a little sumthin' sumthin' in the forseeable future?" Again, sadly no. I do have a few irons in the fire, but, well... um, perhaps it's best we get off this line of inquiry. I'm too busy for a girlfriend right now, and, frankly, thinking about it is depressing me
"Promotion?" No. And it would be small change compared to the magnificent boon which has actually been granted to me.
"Um, okay, you were bitten by a genetically-engineered spider and woke up the next day able to climb walls, jump from rooftop to rooftop, and shoot high tensile-strength webbing from your wrists?" No. But that would be pretty cool.
So, what could it be then? What could possibly have happened that's better than any (or at least most) of those things? Well, just this: The Redneck Asshole moved out of the neighborhood! I was so ecstatic, I even took a picture of the moving van in front of his house to memorialize the blessed event. Whenever life gets me down, all I have to do is look at this picture and I can't help but feel better.
No more will my life be blighted by the most worthless nouveau riche yuppie pinprick I have even encountered. Oh, sure, my street's still brimming with his lesser minions, but my chief antagonist is gone.
It almost beats getting laid. I said "almost."
Last month, I was wearing myself pretty ragged at my place of employment. What with impending deadlines looming large and a wintry economic climate to do battle against, I was staying late, chipping in a few hours on weekends, contributing to a small myriad of various projects wherever my skills could be put to use - the whole nine yards. It wasn't a particularly pleasant or especially rewarding experience, but I was doing my part as a Good Team Player. All for one and one for all, being mindful of needs of the company as a whole - you know the shtik.
So naturally, I got my sorry ass laid off. Complete with candy-coated rhetoric, of course. "It's not you - it's us. You're fine. Better than fine, even: you're a model employee, and we would totally recommend you to another company. You do good work, and we don't really want to see you go. But the company has decided to head in a different direction for the time being...." Which was true enough, I suppose: they wanted to slash the bulk of their development staff to reduce costs and help conserve the corporate coffers. Not that the rationale helped me any, though - ten months of dutiful employment, up in smoke.
So - after getting my requisite melancholy drinking binges out of the way - not having anything better to do, I embarked upon cobbling together a plan of self-improvement. I redoubled the energies towards my personal projects, planning a long-desired vacation, dieting with even more reckless abandon, lavishing more attention upon my significant other. Just generally trying to make the universe a slightly better place for myself, and especially those I hold dear.
So naturally, I got my sorry ass dumped. Complete with candy-coated rhetoric, of course. "It's not you - it's me. You're fine. Better than fine, even: you're everything I could hope for in a boyfriend, and I will totally tell all my friends what a wonderful guy you are. You're my best friend and my boyfriend, and I don't really want to see you go. But I don't think that I can stay with you for the time being...." Which was true enough, I suppose: never having dated anybody else, she wanted to see what else was out there, see what she might be missing out on. Not that the rationale helps me any, though - four-and-a-half years of relationship, up in smoke. (Four-and-a-half years! Christ, I don't think my long-term memory even goes back that far anymore.)
Yeah, that whole "karma" thing that people have espoused over the ages? Kismet, universe-wide transmigration, all that rot? I politely offer this as Counterevidence A.
I'll be out destroying stained glass windows if anybody needs me.
by mg at 01:29 PM on May 21, 2002
In the midst of a mini design revision. The first thing to change are the icons over on the left. What do you think?
by mg at 11:04 PM on May 20, 2002
Some of you are likely to hate me for what I'm about to share. But, since I share everything, I have to give this up to you. I may write my heart out here, many of you know more about me than people I see everyday, but Iíll never let anyoneís opinion of me change the way I live my life. I will be who I have to be, no matter what any of you think of me.
So, here goes, hate me if you want, but I am too thin. No matter how much I eat I canít seem to put on the pounds. Sure, I'm a vegetarian, eat healthy otherwise, and have a moderately active lifestyle. But even when Iím putting away whole packages of Chips Ahoy cookies or devouring entire tubs of rocky road ice cream in one sitting, I just can't seem to gain weight. I drink beer and tons of cheese, but there is not an ounce of fat on me.
I used to be a chubby baby. I was a giant of a baby. I was one of those kids that go on Maury Povich because they weigh a deuce at age three. But as my height increased, my weight has stayed pretty much the same. People have been telling me for years now that I look thin. I've always gotten offended. I donít think my weight is anyone else's concern.
I don't go around telling people they are fat. That is the kind of thing you can get sued for these days. For some reason being tubby is considered a lifestyle choice or immutable characteristic, like race or religion that must be protected. But being skinny is a symptom of an eating disorder. People always claim that this country prizes weight too highly, puts too much pressure on girls to be thing, but how come Calista Flockhart is considered a freak, but Rosie OíDonnell is a jolly and loveable figure?
Besides, I never thought I was that thin. I certainly don't think I'm fat; I'm not running to the bathroom after a big meal and jamming digits down my esophagus. I just figured I was maybe a little light, but solidly within the range for someone my height and build.
But a couple days ago I was looking at myself in the mirror naked. What, you don't spend hours a day looking at yourself in the mirror naked? When you are unemployed you've got to find other things to keep you occupied all day. Am I right my jobless peeps?
I could always see the hint of my ribcage underneath the skin. But as I was looking at myself I could actually count my ribs. There were 12 (would be 13 if it weren't for that bitch Eve). Hey Eve, I want my rib back. And don't forget to give me back my black t-shirt.
If you can count your ribs, I think that is a problem. If only flies were landing on my face and Sally Struthers walking around, I'd have people sending me 40 cents a day (less than the price of a cup of coffee). Which wouldnít be so bad, really. I mean, if anyone wanted to send me 40 cents a day, I could guarantee you Iíd spend the money on donuts, or something equally as fatty. There is even a Dunkin Donuts only a block away from my house. And another one three blocks away from my house.
The point is, I guess, Iíve finally realized I have a problem. I just donít know how to fix it. I donít think I could physically eat more food. Sure, I could, but I donít want to force myself, not when there are starving children in Denmark (or someplace equally as far away sounding). So, what do I do, tell me, my generally overweight American friends, how do I put on the pounds?
by mg at 02:45 PM on May 20, 2002
Itís almost like Iíve got a squatter. Vicky Vale, who received one of the first Bad Samaritan subdomains back in January, has finally moved in, without a word to me. Still, I canít be happier to see her. Go visit Infinite Loop now.
There are still subdomains available, so if youíd like your very own YOURNAME.badsamaritan.com, let me know.
Wednesday was an interesting day for me. I ended up accidentally being drunk. "How the hell do you get accidentally drunk?" you may ask. Well, as anyone who has drink-pushing friends may know, you could go out for a drink, fully intending on driving home within a couple hours after a beer or two, and the next thing you know, you're blasted, making out with your boss's partner, and dancing naked on the table in a lampshade.
Well, I guess I haven't been that tragically drunk in a while, but still, it's within the realm of possibility. What really happened was that a coworker of mine, Lindsay, graduated and decided to have some beer to celebrate with other work folk. We met at Peeple's Bar & Grille (for those of you Ames kids) and we proceeded to have a few drinks with our respective bosses and a couple other folk. After about four beers, everyone else left but Lindsay decided we weren't done. We headed over to Mickey's where, since it was 'twofers,' I proceeded to have a couple cranberry vodkas, a rum & coke or two, and maybe something else. Lo and behold, it's late, I'm blasted, and I call my roommate to come pick me up. We get Taco Bell on the way (which the next day I thought I wolfed down in five minutes, but in actually took me about forty-five minutes, leaving a breadcrumb trail of grated chedder all over the apartment just in case I needed to retrace my steps.)
Then we went to the movie theatre, where I proceeded to see the 12:03 showing of Star Wars Episode II. I recall the movie quite well, though I'm sure I was obnoxious because I was laughing at everything that was even remotely funny and every five minutes I would turn to my friends and 'whisper' "Hayden Christensen is so hot!!!"
I've never seen a movie while drunk, but it was certainly an amusing experience. I fully endorse it to anyone. It's a little safer than drinking and driving. Maybe I need to try this with a horror movie...
Hey there, I'm the new writer here at bs, and i sure as hell intend on living up to the abreviation. I'll bet you want to know more about me than just that, but frankly, I'm just a cocktease, so that means I'll be as vague as possible while still appearing to be informative, much like the FBI.
So, what can i tell you without giving out obvious information to my stalker or any preist? Well, I'm a 20-year old non-Arab Middle Eastern-Australian, a university student in Queensland, am an electronic musician, have posted on this site by another name, have a modest yet impressivly sized package, and am generally a domestic man of mystery. I say domestic man of mystery because, as somebody who is apparently muslim, there is no way in hell I can go near an airport without capturing the attention of the security guards for something other than my good looks.
I also used to run a website that hooked tens of people, who were somewhat charmed by my rushed, mistake-filled posts, and my struggles to lose my virginity, get a
fuck-buddy partner, and deal with my beer allergy, all while living a pseudo-rock star lifestyle.
A number of things have happened since I closed down my site for a long-winded reason I can't be bothered going into. I went to Melbourne for the new year, where my car got vandalised in the secured car-park of a major 5-star hotel chain... on new year's day, I released an EP to critical acclaim, got my Youth Allowance cut because John Howard doesn't like brown people, and can't get a regular job because tourists are kinda freaked out when their cocktails are served to them by some middle eastern-lookin' dude. I'm sure the beard I grew for a media stunt didn't help things either, if only because people started treating me with more respect, possibly under the assumption that I was a nice guy.
oh, and ladies, I no-longer have a crush on a certain chick... Expressions of interest as my official attention-diverter can be sent here. People with pictures get preference. People with pictures of themselves extra-special preference. Women with pictures of themselves get ultra-special preference.
Ok, you must be asking yourself, "No wonder he's using the internet to get laid... he beare's (I assume, of course, that you think with spelling and grammatical errors) an uncanny resemblence to Urkle. Hell, he was reduced to playing basketball with a man in drag because he couldn't nail the girl next door". Well, smarty pants, apart from the fact that at one stage we were mistaken for each other (owing to a very thick pair of glasses and a flat-top haircut that was the fashion those days), we have very little in common. For one thing, the girl next door was a 65-year old neo-nazi.
by mg at 05:48 PM on May 16, 2002
I'd always heard that smoking causes impotence. I know that whenever smoking comes up on Politically Incorrect Bill Maher makes a point of stating he quit the day he found out about the correlation between cigarettes and droopy penis.
Iíve never had the first hand experience to corroborate that hypothesis, but just the thought has always scared me. Iíve seen pictures or smokerís lungs and victims of mouth cancer. They were gross, but it didnít do anything for me. Same with emphysema. I donít even know what emphysema is. It sounds like something I wouldnít want, but I canít be sure.
I donít care about later, just now. Iíve always read that each cigarette you smoke takes an hour off your life. Well, if it were these great (sarcasm) days of my 20s, Iíd care, but the hours coming of my life are when Iím 90. When I hit 90, am shitting in my pants, canít remember my grandkidsí names, and actually enjoying CBSís programming, Iím sure Iíll welcome anything that speeds the impending and inevitable end.
Well, in an effort to get a little healthier, I quit smoking recently. The reason I quit was to make my life better now. I want to exercise without keeling over in pain. I want my clothes and apartment to smell lemony fresh, and I want to save a couple bucks. It had more to do with feeling better now than it did about some mythical bad thing that may happen to me 30 years from now.
Well, itís been one week, today, since I quit. Not really a long time considering in the 10ish years Iíve been smoking, Iíve quit many times before. Iíve gone lots of weeks like this. Iíve even gone as long as 6 months without suckling at the teat of the dark mother.
But, I think this time it is going to stick. Starting a couple days after my last puff, I noticed a spontaneous erection. Not a rare thing for a guy. Erections are mysterious; you never know what causes them. Sometimes it is two lesbians making out, sometimes it is hearing the theme song to the Golden Girls.
So, one erection is no big deal. But then there was another, and another. It has gotten to the point where Iím constantly at attention. I feel like a Marine trapped in a room with a tape loop of the Star Spangled Banner playing. The only cause could be the lack of nicotine in my body, and if that is the case, you definitely wont see a cigarette in my hand any time soon. But until I find a girlfriend, you may catch me with something else in my hand.
I'm going to
rant talk for a bit about last Sunday's episode of the X-files, "Sunshine Days". As many have noted, of course, the penultimate episode of the X-files was, of course, a "Monster of the Week" episode, and did nothing to clear up any of the mysteries that Chris Carter has presented us with over the past 9 years. Which brings me to this:
Um...has anyone at 1013 noticed that there is only one show left? 2 hours. 2 hours with which to explain 9 years of mytharc. 2 hours to give us "The Truth". Ahem.
I, for one, demand an explanation from Chris Carter for the following:
Black oil, green blood, black blood, supersoldiers, the bees, the corn, Samantha and her many clones, hybrid humans, the alien virus, the big spaceships in Africa and Canada from which mankind (apparently) began, those dudes without faces that were burning people up while they were waiting to be abducted (the Rebels?), smallpox innoculations, Jeremiah Smith, Scully's cancer, Mulder's abnormal brain activity, why the Lone Gunmen had to die--in fact, I want an explanation for that entire episode, because not only did they die, but they died for NO APPARENT REASON. Ass. Yeah, that's right, Chris. You are an ASS for killing them off like that. Could they not have at least gone out in a blaze of glory? And where the the hell was Scully during the entire episode? And why didn't she even look upset about their death? And--Where was I? I got off-track for a second there, didn't I? Sorry. My bad.
Back to the "explanation-needed" list:
Billy Miles, alien colonization, alien invasion, vaccines, viruses, alien abductions, government abductions, Samantha's abduction, implants, Emily (remember superovulation?), William the amazing telekinetic baby, and while, I've got William on my mind, Chris, would you like to tell me WHY we never knew Mulder and Scully were doing the wild thing? Don't you think that was a tiny little detail that the fans would have appreciated knowing at the time? Ass. I suppose Mulder told Scully that the Cigarette Smoking Man was his father OFFSCREEN, as well, since she didn't look in the least bit surprised to find out that Jeffery Spender was Mulder's half-brother. Ah, the pillow-talk we, the audience have missed. Why, I'll bet the entire mytharc has already been explained OFFSCREEN, hasn't it?
OK, back to my list:
Cassandra Spender--before being healed and after being healed, Gibson Praise, The Litchfield Project, the alien bounty hunter that keeps turning up, alien autopsies, shapeshifting aliens, big bug-eyed aliens, little tiny grey aliens, big monster aliens with sharp teeth and claws, alien fetuses, alien artifacts, the Syndicate, Alex Krycek, UFO's, whatever happened to Marita Covarrubias, what the hell is up with Skinner this season, what the hell were you thinking with Audrey Pauley and why you EVER thought hiring Moronica was a good idea.
Um, that's all I can think of for now. Did I miss anything?
I know I've used the title "Urge to kill rising" before. But it happens to me so often. These days I rage, and usually have very many outlets for it. This past weekend I was denied paintball release. It rained on Mother's Day, so I could not go out and shoot other people's mother's who had decided paintball was a good 'togetherness' exercise. My partner in crime has in fact, shot someone's mother, repeatedly, with a paintball gun, but that is a story for another time. So, no release on Sunday. Monday, I had a lecture on first aid in my martial arts class. Great googly moogly, I needed to hit someone. Not that we hit anyone all that hard, but something is better than nothing. Today, Volleyball.
If you've been through two seasons of volleyball, one would think you would know where you were supposed to stand on the court, right? Not these folks. I'll stand where I fuckin want to stand. And I'll give you attitude if you try and tell me otherwise, you stupid fuck. Don't fucking give me advice if you can't figure out that you're supposed to set after the first hit. Don't leave the game telling me its alright after you make sure to tell me the entire thing is about winning. It's Okay! We'll do better next time. Right. After our stellar record of 3 and 27, we're somewhere near 6 and 6. An improvement, I know, but Fuck. It's not about how you play the game. It's about that little notch in the win column. Show me a team that likes losing. Give me a fucking team that will listen. Get these GOOBERS off my court. Yes, excuse that last bit of extreme language. If you don't, fuck off. YOU DO NOT HAVE 'TRAINING' SETS ON THE COURT WHILE THE GAME IS ON. You don't set to the weakest player in the team three times if you want to win the fucking game. Three times in a fucking row!
Blame my use of the word 'fuck' on the happy influences in my life. If you like it, keep fuckin doin it. If you hate it, fuckin stop it.
And if you can't tell I suffer from Volleyball rage, then fuck off.
It's been a full week since anyone last posted and so I think this would be the optimal opportunity to make my grand re-entrance. Cue the trumpet fanfare.
Okay, I suppose one sickly kazoo will do. Whatever.
I survived this semester. This may not sound like an impressive feat for some of you (yeah, I know you went through school too, and you probably did it with three full-time jobs, taking care of five cats, three dogs, and your grandmother, and yet you still never neglected your blogs. I know. Good for you.) but for me, it was a very taxing schoolyear. Two semesters of subsisting on 4 hours or less sleep a night with 8 am classes just wasn't good for sanity. But that's all over and done with now. Next semester I start at 10 every morning.
What have I been working on so much, you ask? Good question. You can actually see some of what I've been bleeding over. After years of neglect and half-assed maintenance & states of partial completeness, I have finally constructed a new personal site. (I know it has a lot of cross-browser issues and just crazy stuff & is still kind of skeletal, but I did it as a class project on using Dreamweaver.)
So after surviving school, I did something yesterday I've been talking about for about the past six years. It was a somewhat impulsive decision and I'm sure the money with which I purchased this item could have been diverted elsewhere, but fuckit, it was time for a me purchase.
So what was this purchase? A guitar. It's pretty and blue-green... it's a Samick acoustic with pickup. My interest in music has been reawakening lately. My life used to center around it, but I went a couple years without touching my violin (and promptly went batty in the head.) So I've been reviving that along with all things musical. Do I play guitar? Well... I know three chords. So that's enough to start a band, right?
Keep an eye out for the SnaggleBand, touring soon!
by mg at 11:59 PM on May 14, 2002
Tomorrow, I leave to go on vacation. It seems odd to be thinking about a vacation, because that normally implies that one has a job that one needs a break from. I have no such encumbrances, but weíve had this trip planned for months, so call it what you will. Iím still getting the hell out of Dodge for a week.
The occasion is my 20-year college reunion, and Iím surprisingly excited about it. Itís a chance for me to catch up with people who were close friends 20 years ago. I really havenít seen any of them since, mostly because I was the one of those who took off for the four corners of the globe.
Iím interested in seeing where life has taken people. The stories ought to be interesting, if nothing else. One friend is an actor on Canadian television, one is a journalist, and others have followed some interesting and fascinating paths. Most have families, which frankly amazes me. I know weíre all of that age, but trying to imagine some of my friends as parents still stretches my imagination.
The hardest part for all of us will be remembering a friend killed in the attack on the World Trade Center. I will miss seeing Tim among us, as will we all. Our class is planting a tree on campus in his memory, and there will be many tears at the dedication ceremony, mine included. Death is a part of life, but to have someone taken from you in such a horrific manner is still a difficult thing to accept.
It ought to be an interesting week. Catch up with some friends, see some of my family, and just try to relax and enjoy life as much as possible. Since being laid off, there hasnít been a whole lot of relaxation or enjoyment for me, so it will be nice to have some time to decompress.
I also plan on taking a vacation from my keyboard, so there will be nothing from me for at least a week. Perhaps a week away will recharge my batteries, and perhaps I'll have something useful to say when I return. Until then, enjoy life, and remember that every day truly is a gift. Live it as if itís your lastÖ.
by mg at 02:55 AM on May 14, 2002
Well, the work stoppage is over. It shouldnít have happened in the first place. Iíve never been a big fan of unions, strikes, the rights of labor, or any of the Michael Moore crap, but sometimes you have to do something you hate to prove a point.
In the past, any time Iíve been pissed off with an employer Iíve either swallowed it up into a tiny bitter ball in the pit of my stomach, or Iíve gotten back at the company by spending days at a time on instant messenger and stealing office machinery (though Iím not sure Iíll ever find use for 17 staplers, even if they are cherry red Swinglines).
To tell the truth, in this situation, I am the employer, I wasnít pissed off at myself, I was pissed off with all of you. That isnít exactly true either. Iíd written a couple of crappy, toss-off posts earlier last week that ended up getting a goodly number of comments, and then I wrote two serious (ish) posts that got no comments and I was a little hurt. Iím sensitive, damn it!
Iíve been at this nearly two years now, but Iíve still got the thin skin. I was actually rather self-indulgent of me to do a work stoppage and demand comments. But it only lasted 24 hours, and I promise I wont do it again (though it did seem to work pretty well). Itís not like I pretended to kidnap any other bloggers or anything.
Now, Iíd really like to thank you all for humoring me about the math thing. You donít know how much I appreciate that. Really. To pay you all back for your kindness I wont make another stupid math joke for at least a week AND Iíll post some pictures of boobies very soon.
Now, to really tell the truth this time, the whole work stoppage was as much an excuse not to have to post anything for a day as it was any real anger over not getting the proper credit for my ďbrilliantĒ math word play. I didnít really need the notice of my bad puns that badly. It was really just a way to get out of having to post anything for a day.
by mg at 01:22 AM on May 13, 2002
This is an official work stoppage. I refuse to post again until people recognize the brilliance of my math joke (see below).
Anyone who crosses the picket line will officially be labeled a scab, and should expect rotten fruit and many a hateful epitaphs hurled in their general vicinity.
You have been warned.
by mg at 01:15 AM on May 13, 2002
Please welcome Mr. Blank to the Bad Samaritan family. Maker's Mark and a couple of cubans for everybody.
Still plenty of hosting spots open, so let me know if you need help, and have no where else to turn.
Itís eight oíclock on a Saturday morning, and as usual, Iím up and pondering the vagaries of the universe. God, there are times I wish I still could drink like I did in college. At least that way, Iíd still be asleep. Sure, Iíd wake up with a hangover, but at least it would be at a decent hour- like noon, fírinstanceÖ.
So here I am, awake and thinking- not always a safe combination. It occurs to me that there are still many things in this world I fail to comprehend. Now, before everyone else crawls out of bed at the crack of 11, I have the time available to ponder life, the universe, and everything else. Here goesÖ.
My list today is short. Actually, thereís only one item- the 55 MPH speed limit here in the Houston area. The state of Texas, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that in an effort to reduce pollution, speed limits in the metropolitan area would be reduced from 65-70 MPH to a uniform 55. Of course, this flies in the face of two very obvious facts:
1) NO ONE in Houston drives 55 unless they have a death wish. It just isnít safe to drive that slowly. When a driver in Texas is stopped for speeding, they are actually cited for driving in an unsafe manner. The Harris County DA has discovered that the law is written in such a way that a driver can claim that he/she HAD to exceed the speed limit in order to drive safely- after all, everyone else is. This loophole could tie our court system in knots.
2) Most of the pollution in the Houston metropolitan area is generated by large industry- refineries, chemical plants, etc. For some reason, industry is being required to carry exactly NONE of the burden when it comes to reducing pollution. It might have something to do with large donations made to politicians over the past few years. Money and politics? Really?? HmmmÖ.
The city, state, and county have spent millions replacing every single speed limit sign in the eight county metropolitan area. Now, some officials are wondering if the whole thing was really such a good idea. Thatís right, guys, the horses are out of the barn; time to get the horsesÖ.
OK, so Houston has the worst air pollution in the country. Look how effectively weíre dealing with it, though. Houston is also the fattest city in the country. I shudder to think how weíre going to cope with thatÖ.
by mg at 02:52 AM on May 11, 2002
I was talking to someone today and somehow we got onto the topic of math. Considering I went to a high school for nerds (it was the basis for the school in Head of the Class), so a lot of my conversations end up about math. It is just one of those things about me.
Parenthetically, there is this folk singer called Dan Bern. He sounds a lot like Bob Dylan (only understandable), he was discovered by Ani DiFranco (and often tours with her), and he writes songs about what itís like to be a cow, getting abducted by aliens, dogs with opposable thumbs, and of course, love and god and other stuff that people write songs about. Anyway, he came by and played the M-Shop, the club I worked at in college, and where I frequently saw Space and Shar, but never actually talked to them.
Before the first time he came to Ames Iíd never heard any of his music before. When he started playing, I instantly fell in love with his voice, the fact he is a folk singer who came on stage with a wife beater and the muscles to make it work. As the night wore on, I fell in love with his words. At one point he sang the lines:
I'm walking down the line A line has no actual width, that's impossible
It certainly is not one of his best songs, but itís a math joke, see. How could I not love it?
I have this urge to explain why the joke is funny, but it would involve geometry theory, and anyone still reading at this point would be frightened away for good. The important part of the story is that I was the only one in the crowd of 150 college students who laughed. Well, I wasnít the only person. There was one other person who laughed, who, luckily, was the girl with me at the time.
Anyway, the point is that I math jokes really get me. Not to mention chicks who like math jokes. I make them around here pretty frequently. Math jokes, not chicks. But in the flesh world I wouldnít dare make a math joke. I just know that most of the general population is staring at their computer screens with a range of emotions covering everything from bemused wonderment to pure disgust. I just couldnít bear to have someone look at me that way in real life.
Now, getting back to the actual point of the story, I was talking to someone yesterday and we got on the topic of math. She said she had a favorite math problem, which I found buttonishly cute. She said her favorite math problem is 9x9=81. I regret now that I didnít ask her why, but I was too distracted by the awful math joke that immediately popped into my head - the awful math joke that I will impart on all of you momentarily.
First, I need to make it known that I donít tell jokes. When I hear a joke, I immediately forget it. And I donít come up with my own jokes. But, if in the course of conversation, something I say happens to strike someone as funny, well, that makes me awfully happy. I donít think of myself as amusing, but apparently I am. And the better I know someone, the freer I am to let out whatever silly little thing pops into my head at the moment. Under the right conditions, I can make a person cringe with laughter.
Now, the person I was talking to, well, I donít know her very well. But she started with the math jokes (if having a favorite math equation can be considered a joke), so I felt comfortable enough to share. When she mentioned her favorite math equation, I broke out with this:
I donít have a favorite math equation, but I do have an equation I donít really like that much. It is 12x12=144. I think itís just gross.
Now, Iím well aware that what I said is as far removed from funny as any statement in the history of mankind. But, she laughed. Maybe 1+1 equals ďmg wont be lonely for much longerĒ? It looks like things are adding up that way.
by mg at 11:59 PM on May 09, 2002
Gordon is, like, the king of dreams. He seems to remember his dreams all the time. I never remember my damn dreams, except for those times when Iím woken up by some unthinking fucktard calling early in the morning and waking my ass up. I mean, who calls at 11:30am on a Tuesday morning? What are they thinking, the bastards?
Anyway, Gordon was talking about this dream he had where he was trying to remember these things he wanted to post about. It sounds like an awfully exciting dream; someone's life is sure in the fast lane.
One of the things he was trying to remember in the dream was to post about how he sets an alarm, but always wakes up at least ten minutes before it goes off. I was going to comment about my own similar experience, but it got to the point where I'd written a novel. Now, it is one thing to babble aimlessly on my own site, but I donít want to foul someoneís comments with this inane rambling. I save that kind of thing for you guys.
So, here is my story. A couple years ago, while I was still in college, I decided to stick around in Iowa over the summer. Ames is a college town; half the population of the 50,000-citizen town is either a student or an employee of the school. Come mid-May and with it the end of the spring semester, the town empties out. It is a Ghostville, population 1.
Iíd spent a couple of summerís in Ames before. But, this summer was different. Iíd just broken up with my long-time girlfriend. And because Iíd taken a year off between my freshman and sophomore years, I ended graduated a year behind all of my friends.
So, that May, basically everyone I knew graduated. Split town, and not just for the summer, but for good. The few other friends I had left were all gone for the summer too. Needless, I was a bit depressed. Here I was, stuck in Ames, Iowa completely and utterly alone with nothing to do. I worked 40 hours a week and took a couple of summer classes. But that couldnít hope to fill up all the hours of the day.
Now, I had nothing to do in the morning. My first class didnít start until 10:30. I lived 5 minutes from campus. From my apartment, I could throw a rock and hit campus, and I throw like a girl. That is how close I lived. Still, I woke up every day at 7:55 am (plus or minus 4 minutes). I never used an alarm clock. I did, however, have my television set to go off every morning at 8am.
Why 8am, you ask? Well, that was when Pokemon came on.
Each morning Iíd wake up, look over at the clock, and make a mental note of how plus or minus 7:55 it was. Iíd lie in bed for however many plus or minus minutes it took to get to 8am and then bolt out of bed and into the living room as soon as the tv popped on and I heard the opening notes of the Pokemon theme song:
I want to be the very best
Like no one ever was
To catch them is my real test
To train them is my cause - Pokemon!
After cartoons, Iíd eat breakfast and wander onto campus for class (philosophy of technology the first session and intro to reporting the second session). At 11:30, Iíd head to work doing web development for the university. Since most departments were on skeleton staff, there wasnít a hell of a lot of work to do at work, unless you consider downloading MP3s as pay-worthy.
At about 6 or 7, Iíd head home. Iíd change and head to the track behind my house (and State Gym). By the end of the summer I was running 4 miles a day, 6 days a week. After cooling down, Iíd head home, shower and eat dinner. Then I'd sit on the couch watching summer reruns and drinking enough gin and tonic (or maybe White Russians if I was feeling spicy) to knock me out by 10 pm. The next day I woke up and began it all again. The exact same routine every day for three months.
Now, even if I donít have a job, or a girlfriend, or any prospects for either, Iím happy, much happier than I was that summer. Most days I didnít speak to a single person, which was fine. I had my track, and my Pokemon, and my gin and that was more than enough for me. My life may be even worse off now (technically speaking), but my head is so much more together. Still, did I mention I started running again?
by mg at 11:54 PM on May 08, 2002
In an effort to further separate my perverted online life from my mostly non-perverted professional online life, Iím looking for a new AIM screen name.
Iíve already got a reasonably professional sounding screen name, for the Internet Professional part of personality. So, what I am really looking for here is a new screen name for the Bad Samaritan part of my personality.
Of course, ďBad SamaritanĒ is taken.
As are the bakerís dozen bakerís dozen different variations of ďBad SamĒ that I tried. That is 169 different variations, for the culinary disinclined among you. All used.
Every reasonable variation on my favorite word, Cathexis, is gone. Any derivation of my favorite hobby,
Philatelia, has long ago been snatched up. Unitarian Ho is taken. Both Angry MG and Very Angry MG are already in use.
It is so frustrating. Can you believe, even ďSquirrel PantsĒ is taken? That was the bottom of my barrel. Iíve run out of names to try.
So, in the interests on Interactivity, and making you, my few remaining loyal readers, part of the action, Iím taking suggestions for a new screen name. Please, help me out here.
I saw an interview with NBCís Tom Brokaw this morning that has really set me to thinking. He was discussing what an increasingly violent place the world is becoming when he mentioned something a friend told him: ĒNot only is there no light at the end of the tunnel, we canít even be certain there IS a tunnel at the moment.Ē Whether youíre talking about the Middle East, about Pakistan, Nepal, the Philippines, or American mailboxes; whether youíre Israeli, Palestinian, al-Qaeda, or live in Iowa, violence has become an everyday part of the vernacular. And a change anytime soon is looking increasingly unlikely.
When did we lose the ability to talk to one another? When did violence come to be viewed as the acceptable (and only) option for effective problem resolution? It seems as if the world is becoming caught up in this endless, vicious cycle of tit-for-tat, an eye for an eye. This serves to illustrate my favorite Mahatma Gandhi quote: ĒAn eye for an eye only serves to make the whole world blind.Ē It would seem we are well and too far down that road.
There was a time when politicians and leaders had the moral courage and the vision to see that nonviolence and negotiation could often solve problems AND save lives. Gandhi almost single-handedly toppled the British Empire without firing a shot. Unfortunately, we now live in a world where people like Yasir Arafat, Timothy McVeigh, Osama bin-Laden, or Luke Helder see it as their right to seek redress for their grievances, whether real or perceived, by causing grievous bodily harm to innocents. These people (and others like them) have killed, or tried to kill, thousands, and yet their ďissuesĒ remain substantially unresolved. So what, then, has been accomplished, other than the slaughter of those whose only connection was that they were to be used and viewed as political pawns?
In order to fight the growing threat of political violence, governments have now become more and more like the terrorists they claim to be trying to defeat. Israel unofficially sanctions state-supported political assassinations. Nepalese soldiers dress as the Maoist rebels they despise, and then go into remote villages to see who salutes or responds positively. Those unfortunate souls who do not recognize the ruse are summoned for questioning and, shortly afterwards, summary execution. A look or a careless smile could unwittingly turn out to be an innocent civilianís last mortal act.
Somewhere along the line, peacemakers have become passť. We are all the poorer for itÖ.
by emma at 10:16 AM on May 08, 2002
Over the weekend while being served at a store checkout with a good friend of mine i was subjected to some rather noisy and shocked exclamations because, shock the horrors, i don't shave off my pubic hair.
I wouldn't have given it a second thought except for the way she inferred that i was somehow lacking as a woman. This from a woman buying herself some gentleman's clippers for the said deed. It was during this conversation that she enlightened me about her shaving habits along with details of her hairy ass. Yeuchk, there are just some things you don't share with your girlfriends, at least not while they're sober and fragile to such traumatic details. Remember we're standing in line at checkout! I mean.....hairy ass...purleeeze!
Is it not enough nowadays to have a clean bikini line, to be neat and tidy, must we go one step further and remove the lot?
I went through a phase of shaving the lot and i felt downright bizarre, if not a touch regressive, shaven muff is for porn stars and the pre-pubescent.
My reasons were of the male variety, they seemed as good as any (well i was young, impressionable aka dumb), whereas my good friend (hats off to the girl) just likes it that way, i think i'll keep it neat not naked.
What tickles your fancy?
In yesterday's edition of the Dallas Morning News, was this article about Fr. Norman Rogge, who from all indications is the Dallas Diocese poster boy for pedophilia. At the very least, he is the beneficiary of the Catholic Church's "deny, delay, and diminish" strategy. Fr. Rogge, among his many accomplishments, has these to be proud of:
1) Groping a young teen at a movie
2) Fondling teens during swimming lessons
3) Exposing himself to an 11-year-old boy on a weekend trip
4) Soliciting oral sex
He is a twice-convicted sex offender, and yet the Church has never felt it necessary to take steps to ensure he has no contact with children. Instead, Church strategy was merely to transfer the problem, perhaps hoping against hope that the problem would not transfer with him.
What is sad about Fr. Rogge's story is not that it is the exception. To a large degree, it has been the rule within the hierarchy of the Catholic Church for years. Denial is indeed more than a river in Egypt. This river runs straight through the Vatican, with the College of Cardinals as river guides and the Pope as Captain.
Speaking for myself, I have never been a fan of the Catholic Church, and for reasons having nothing to do with the current pedophilia scandal. For those people whose Catholic faith has been their anchor, I feel for them. How sad to find out that not only does the Church not protect it's flock, it for years effectively denied that there was even a problem.
I also feel for those priests who go about their daily duties with a sense of humility and dedication to those they serve. There are many of them, but their service has been tarnished by those deviants who prey on children. It is truly depressing to think that a clerical collar, once the symbol of peace and prayer and service, is now also a symbol of stolen childhoods and sexual deviancy.
by mg at 11:59 PM on May 03, 2002
This is a very special edition of I Never Thought I’d See You Naked. For Rannie’s 50K Photo Contest, I decided to finally give something back to all those ladies of Bad Samaritan (and Tom) who’ve had to suffer through all those nudie shots of buxom young starlets and my constant talk of Kirsten Dunst this and Jessia Biel that.
I decided to bare a little skin of my own.
Now, if you remember, way back in the halcyon days of last summer, you could catch me on cam in all manner of unclothed glory. But only from the waste up. Some of you liked to imagine me completely naked. But I always had pants on. Well, mostly anyway.
I have never appeared on webcam, or any other kind of cam, in all my birthday-suited glory. Sure, there might be pictures and videos, and the odd oil painting, of me nude. But, those were all for private pleasure. This, this is for the world.
So, if you are interested in seeing me in all my natural beauty, have a click (not safe for work. Or anywhere else, really). Don’t forget to notice my glowing (track) ball. I love my glowing (track) ball.
I need to go do some sit-ups now.
by mg at 05:43 PM on May 03, 2002
New York Times Random Login Generator (link via.. i forget)
by mg at 03:42 PM on May 03, 2002
Though it is in my nature to do that sort of thing, I'm not going to write a long winded introduction. This is the second installment (view your April Stars), of this new (monthly?) feature.
There is some disturbance in the force, because these were a little bit harder to write. Uhm, I mean, decipher. Yeah, that's it. If they are as tough to decipher next month, I may give up. Either that, or take a class at the Learning Annex and learn how to fully utilize my gift.
At any rate, I repeat again, Horrorscopes: Astrology for the criminally Insane.
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Taurus (Apr. 21st-May 20th)
The neighbors start to suspect when they only ever see you take laundry out of the building, but never bring it back. Maybe they need 15 minutes in your spin cycle?
Gemini (May 21st-June 21st)
By the time you climb all the stairs of University of Texas Tower classes have already been let out for the summer. Perhaps it is time to think about that gym membership?
Cancer (June 22nd-July 22nd)
The stars know what you did last summer.
Leo (July 23rd-Aug. 22nd)
Covering up the Nazi symbol tattooed on your forehead before your next parole hearing was a good idea. Covering up the Nazi symbol on your forehead with a ďI (heart) SatanĒ tattoo was a bad idea.
Virgo (Aug. 23rd-Sept. 22nd)
Though disturbing, entering peopleís dreams to steal their clothing before that big final exam isnít nearly as menacing as wearing one of those knife-hand glove thing and ripping their hearts out.
Libra (Sept. 23rd-Oct. 23rd)
Jobs Ė Jobs Ė Jobs
Now hiring 24 Hrs/7 Days
Full-time, Part-time, No Exp. Nec.
Govt/Postal Jobs - starting at $12/hr.
Scorpio (Oct. 24th-Nov. 22nd)
You're dreams of becoming a vampire are dashed after your little sister accidentally lets your pet bat out of its cage. Your mom gets so freaks out she hits it with a broom, killing poor Lestat Jr. instantly.
Sagittarius (Nov. 23rd-Dec. 21st)
The thing about advice is that everyone is giving it but no one is taking it. This month, the voices in your head have a lot to say; maybe it's time you started listening?
Capricorn (Dec. 22nd-Jan. 20th)
Being a serial killer requires actually murdering more than one person. Choosing to murder child-starts who grew up normal as your modus operandi isnít going to leave you with many options.
Aquarius (Jan. 21st-Feb. 18th)
Aquarius, don't just stare at it. Eat it.
Pisces (Feb. 19th-Mar. 20th)
If youíre just finishing up a nice dinner and youíre getting in the car to drive home when you suddenly realize youíve left your gun in the restaurant, just forget about it. Stay in the car and take your wife home. You can always go back in the morning to pick up your gun. Believe the stars on this one.
Aries (Mar. 21st-Apr. 20th)
Jodie Foster may not respond to your letters now, but shooting at President Reagan will certainly make her love you. Besides, he'll forget all about it in a couple minutes anyway.
by mg at 12:01 AM on May 03, 2002
I hearby resign from the human race. I'm fucking done.
by eric at 07:20 PM on May 01, 2002
Name one industry that makes so much money it could have paid down the national debt when we had one. (Or do we again? I assume it's just a matter of time...)
If you said professional sports or big oil or well, any of a thousand industries except those that are Internet or magazine related, you're probably right. But, the one I'm pissed at now is the magic makers, the dream creators, the traders in make-believe: the movie studios.
Case in point: I'm cheap. While I like to hit the movies on very regular occasions, I do so usually before 6pm to get the matinee prices or by using various types of pre-purchased passbooks that let me get in for about six bucks, instead of the ridiculous $8.50. I know they'll make their money anyway, since I'm going to inevitably hit the concession for the jumbo tub o' corn and the large Sprite in the Harry Potter collectable glasses left from last November.
So today, I decide to make sure I'm not going to miss out on opening night of my current obsession, the over-marketed and who-cares-because-I'll-love-it Spider-Man. I went to the local Hoyts Cineplex at the mall and plunked down my CinemaCash for two tickets, my good man, and don't spare the Goobers.
Then the pimply-faced usher-boy pointed to the sign.
Under orders from the studios, no advance sales discount tickets will be accepted for the first two weeks of Spider-Man (or for Episode Deux: Attack of the Drones, either). I gave them my credit card and got the tickets anyway, of course. And that's just what the studios are counting on.
The first weekend of any box office release is always the biggest money making time, whether people use cheap tickets or not. By not allowing discount tickets during that time for what will be the two biggest money makers of the year (name one film that will make more. Minority Report? Ha.), it only serves to fill the coffers of the people who already have all the cash in the world and screws over those most important of people: the die-hard, don't-have-a-life fans that keep such franchises alive long after they should have passed on. (Yeah, I saw Batman and Robin and Superman 4: The Quest for Peace on their opening nights! I watched X-Files after Mulder left! I admit it!)
So when Spider-Man 4: Where Are My Tights? hits theaters in 2010, after a now tubby Tobey had dropped out of the role and it's been taken over by the kid who plays Dewey on Malcolm in the Middle, and Spidey's fighting villains like Paste Pot Pete and The Rocket Racer... well, I'll be there in line.
Because I paid for it today.
I know people who play golf their entire life in search of something elusive- a lower score, a hole-in-one, a perfect swing. I should know; Iím one of them. Itís not a sickness, but it certainly is a passion. Just to give you an idea, I actually tried to play 18 holes on my wedding day, but things didnít work out in the end. Perhaps it was because I was exhausted by the time the day arrived. Still, it would have been fun.
Itís a difficult thing to explain to someone who doesnít play the game. If you don't play golf, it is difficult to comprehend the beauty, the serenity, the challenge, and the insanely masochistic nature of the sport. Every now and then, though, there are days like the one I had on Monday that keep me coming back for more. I shot an 87, which was the first time I'd EVER broken 90. I shot a 40 on the front nine, and for a few moments I was thinking I might actually have a chance to break 80. It was a day when even my bad shots weren't disastrous, and if I hadn't missed a few putts by THIS MUCH, my score would have been even better. I've been playing the game since I was 11, and I've never had a day on the golf course like I did yesterday.
And that, my friends, is the beauty of the sport. I love the peace and quiet, the camaraderie, the fact that (most) people turn off their cell phones. People tend to be much more relaxed and civil on a golf course than they are in real life. I have never met anyone on a golf course who was anything less than pleasant to be around. Sure, some people deal with the adversity of the game better than others. Golfers, generally speaking, understand the importance of the etiquette associated with the game, and they respect the game and those who play it. This may sound silly and perhaps a bit trite, but if more people played golf, perhaps weíd all get along just a little bit better.
As for me, I can't wait to get back out there. I want to see if I can break 90 again, but I also just want to be able to experience again the peace and quiet I feel on a golf course. Itís something that there is far too little of in my life.
by mg at 02:14 PM on May 01, 2002
I had a job interview today. Howíd it go, you ask? I left the interview, took a seat in Bryant Park and wrote this, the cover letter to end all cover letters:
To Whom It May Concern:
I am applying for the job of INSERT JOB TITLE HERE. You may review my attached resume to learn all about my vast experience and the unique qualities that make me perfect for the INSERT POSITION TITLE HERE.
Of course, there is surely someone more qualified out there. Someone with more experience.
Maybe there is someone from within your company and you've got a policy to always hire from within. Maybe the Executive Vice President's second cousin is looking for a job and you owe him a favor because he never told anyone about the time he found you drunk and naked in the copy room. Maybe some busty blonde slipped naked pictures of herself into her resume. There are plenty of reasons you probably wonít hire me.
But, before you make that hasty choice, let me tell you something. I haven't had full time work in nearly a year. I am hungry. So very hungry. I will do anything to get this job. Have you always wanted to try out your very own casting couch but were afraid of the sexual harassment lawsuits? Don't worry, touch me wherever you want and Iíll never tell another living soul. I don't care if you are male or female; I want this job. And remember, I haven't had a nine to five since last June, so there will be nothing too kinky for me. Cleveland Steamer? Iíve always considered Cleveland to be the most unappreciated American city.
I want this job.
And if I am lucky enough to get this job, I will do anything to keep it. Have you been embezzling money from the company for years, and they are just about to find out? I'll help you cover it up. And if the shit is really about to hit the fan, I'll help you pin the wrap on someone else, maybe that dork in accounting who scratched the paint on your new Lexus when he opened his car door to quickly in the company parking lot.
I'm a team player. If we are on a business trip and you want me to pull a train on that prostitute you brought up to the hotel and are going to expense to the company, I will. I'm just that kind of guy. And if you need someone to tell your wife you really were working late in the office on Friday night? I'll do it. I'll lie for you. My eternal soul is a small price to pay for a full time job.
I need this job.
Is the company to cheap to hire you a personal assistant? Well, I'll get you coffee and bagels in the morning, and pick up your dry cleaning in the afternoon. I'm not really that good at taking dictation, but if you need me to, I'll learn. You drop your pen behind your desk and you need me to bend over and pick it up? My ass is there for you.
Just think of me as that lonely guy in school, that everyone knew who end up marrying the first woman who agrees to have sex with him. I will be as loyal to you as that guy is to his domineering wife. I will still love you know matter how much you abuse me. And if you dally with other employees, buying them lunch in the office cafeteria, or only CCing them on important emails (and those racist/sexist Spam jokes you like to forward around the office) I wonít mind. I'm not the jealous type.
Please give me this job.