Sorry I have been quiet again. I had a brutal certification class for my job and had to devote all of my time to it. I passed though. Go me. Mo money!! Anyway, here is one of the things that have been going on lately.
With all of the negative things going on in the world right now, I finally, have something positive to dwell on. I hope. I’m going to spend next weekend with my ex-fiancé. We have a very long history spanning sixteen years. We met at a church camp when I was sixteen and she was fourteen. We dated through high school and two years of college until I left for the Army. The distance proved to be a bit much for her and, with the feelings of abandonment she broke things off with me. We toyed with the idea of getting back together on many occasions but I was in Colorado and she was in Virginia. Needless to say, long distance relationships usually work only in movies, if then, and ours just didn’t work at all. We kept in touch though.
I made a monumental mistake on the rebound from (let’s call her) Steph and married someone I shouldn’t have. K was a nice girl and I thought I loved her. What I wanted to be love was soon shown for what it was; rebound love. Rebound love is a strange beast, no? It will definitely make you do things totally out of character like get married when you have doubts. I guess I had been torn down to the point that any affection directed my way by a member of the opposite sex qualified them for unconditional love from me. It’s disgusting actually. Whiney, sniveling and disgusting. Is there anything as pitiful as a man going through a rebound that has cut him to the soul?
Well, Steph chose the day after I was married to call me and say she thought we needed to talk. Talk!? You haven’t called in three months and now we have things to talk about? I informed her that I had just gotten married and didn’t think my wife would appreciate that. She was devastated. I couldn’t understand why. Isn’t this what she wanted? Me out of her life. After I hung up I couldn’t shake the thought of her. That lasted for a month until I finally called her.
I called during work hours, when I thought she wouldn’t be there, so I could listen to her voice on the answering machine. Pitiful huh? Everything went according to plan until she answered. Oh shit! I had no idea what to say so I said "hi." We ended up talking for an hour or so telling each other how much we missed and loved each other. When we got off the phone I knew I had made a huge mistake. What the hell was I going to do now? Well, I went home that night and told K that I couldn’t stay married to her. I was in love with Steph and didn’t think it would be fair to her if I lived a lie and involved her. She wasn’t happy but said she knew that I loved Steph. She told me she was just hoping I would forget about her given the time. The next week was a tough one for all parties involved. K and I had to live in the same house until she found a place to move to. The whole time she wouldn’t sleep and would keep me up trying to convince me that we could work things out if I’d just forget about Steph. I could just as soon forget how to breathe and told her so. Suffice to say that that was one shitty week. The guilt I felt for involving K was terrible. She didn’t deserve any of this and was going through her own personal hell due to my actions. I still, to this day, know I did the right thing by leaving though. I couldn’t have loved her like a husband should and I know this, so why go through the motions?
Steph and I got back together and tried to make things work. I was still in the Army and she was living about an hour away so we had weekends to see each other. It worked until I got out and moved in with her. I landed a job that kept me away from home about six months out of the year. If anyone here has had to make a long distance relationship work you know how rough it can be. We started growing away from each other a bit more each day. She had her circle of friends and when I came home I would just try to fit in her life as best I could. I never felt like any of it was mine, or even a part of it. Then I would leave again for months and the divide ended up being too much for us to overcome. We split again.
This time we stayed apart for almost three years. One night I was having a party at my apartment when Steph calls. I thought she was this girl that wouldn’t stop calling so I was a bit rude and hung up. Steph’s Mom called me the next day and asked why I was such an ass to Steph. I asked her what the hell she was talking about. I hadn’t talked with Steph in years. She informed me that it was her I had hung up on the previous night. Shit! I called Steph back and talked with her for a while. She told me she was going to get married but her fiancé had pulled out at the last minute and she needed a friend to talk to. Fuck! I didn’t really want to hear about it since I still had feelings for her but felt I owed that much, at least, for doing some of the bad things I’d done to her when we were younger. Oh I forgot to tell that part. I was a bit of a dog in my younger days and used to cheat on her pretty regularly. I am not proud of this and felt that everything that she had done, in retaliation, was justified. I deserved what I had gotten thus far and thought that if I could help her then I owed that to her. We began talking every night and she poured her soul out to me about how different this guy had been from me and how she thought he was the elusive “Mr. Perfect” that every woman seems to be looking for. He did all the things from making a scrap book of their relationship to getting the ring from Tiffany’s. The guy was good. I have to give him that. He did all of these things up to the point where it was time to put up or shut up then left. He’d gotten what he wanted. He was accepted to the MBA program where Steph had great connections and was able to put in the right word for the right person. Elementary my dear Watson. She was left to pick up the pieces. Fucker.
I listened to her as a friend, and would drive two states away to sit with her and let her cry on my shoulder. One weekend she instigated sex and I went with it. We ended up back in each other’s family’s lives and the whole deal. She said she wanted to move to D.C., after finishing her MBA, so we could give things a fair shot. Well, a couple of months away from graduation she started having second, and maybe third, thoughts. Needless to say I was a bit confused and hurt by this. I was totally structuring my life to have her here and had been for months, what was this last minute wishy-washy shit? Well, things fell apart and I learned, from keeping up with her family, that she had a new beau. Sucks for me huh? We didn’t talk for another year.
She called me this past Christmas and said she would like to see me if it was ok. If you would have told me, before Christmas, that Santa or Steph might call, I would’ve put my cash on the fat guy. I went to see her. Now she has quit her job in N.C. and moved to Richmond.
This is two hours south from D.C. She says she is looking for jobs in the D.C. area and I’m a large factor for this. Whew. I am one scared mofo. To do this again I’m going to have to take down every wall and allow her back within striking distance of my heart. She’s my Kryptonite. There’s no doubt about that. I am going to do it though. I feel that you meet that special person once, twice maybe if you’re lucky, and it’s worth the potential pain to me to find out if we can put the past away and just enjoy one another. I may be setting myself up for one hell of a fall. I’m not sure if I should cease and desist all other female correspondence or keep things as they are until I see some concrete proof that I’m what she wants. I really don’t know what to do but I don’t want to fuck up a chance with her if I can help it. I also don’t want to give 110% to get back 40%. This is going to be touch and go for sure. Any ideas?
by mg at 11:23 AM on March 31, 2003
Recently, the New York Press voted political cartoonist the second most annoying person in New York City. They called him “just another self-righteous shitheel” and declared his “attempts at political commentary and liberal activism do more harm to the cause than any amount of conservative clampdown.” Rall’s work tends to raise the cockles of many bloggers too, including, recently, Michele and Dodd. I’d have been more than willing to let anything Rall had to say pass, not falling victim to his “self-created controversy.”
Then I got this weeks Rolling Stone magazine (I get it free), and there was an article about political cartoonists. Now, I understand RS is hardly a bastion of evenhanded journalism, but of the five artists featured in the article, each was decidedly liberal. Are there really no conservative political cartoonists?
Bill Clinton, who really needs something to keep him busy, spoke a couple weeks ago about the lack of liberal radio hosts, compared to the overwhelming success of the O’Reillys and Limbaughs. Do conservatives and hawks just get off on the aural? If someone were to put the same stories in a 3, or 6-panel cartoon, would no one care enough to read it?
Well, I guess we’ll find out.
The name, Fair Use comes from the fact I'm using images copyrighted by someone other than me, and I don't want to get sued. Please don't sue me.
Also, if people are into this, I'll try to do it fairly regularly, two or three times a week. If not, well, I'll do it a couple times a week for the next couple weeks and then I'll slowly taper off until months later when someone asks about it I'll pretend I have no idea what they are talking about. At any rate, I'll be posting them up to the main page, but all the Fair Use strips will be listed, well, at the link I just gave.
Okay, my first post went over like the proverbial lead balloon, but I'm ready for further punishment.
See, a few weeks ago I was kvetching to MG about a boy I'd been fooling (emphasis on fool) around with. This boy reads my blog, so I couldn't vent much about the emotional turbulence he was inflicting upon me on my own site. While I've had to restrain at times myself from writing on my site about other people I've dated or slept with or what-have-you, this time it was particularly chafing, since my entanglement with the aforementioned boy is the messiest sexual/romantic/whatever brouhaha I've had since starting my blog. And I said something like "I wish I had a secret blog where I could write about the stuff I don't want to write about on my own site because it involves people I know who read it or because stuff I just don't want too many of my friends to know. I think I'd call it My So-Called Love Life." And MG said something like, "Well, hell, bitching about our love lives is a goodly chunk of what we do at BadSamaritan." Thusly, Rayanne was born. It fits. She was such a mess, that Rayanne.
Of course, there's no way I could ever usurp Linz's rightful title as the Carrie Bradshaw of BadSamaritan, but I hope that if I vent here once in a while you'll be okay with that.
And Anna already busted my cover (well, I busted it myself, really) and Lockheed HATES me. Good start, eh?
I'm here with some sound practical advice for you single gals out there. In addition to handsome, suave, funny and well-hung, there is another quality to consider when seeking a mate: You need a man who is handy with tools and well-versed in couplings, plumb lines, flanges and such.
It's a cinch to determine whether or not he possesses these vital skills. Just throw some silverware in your disposal. Once it stops functioning, call him up and insist that he fix it right away. Don't give him time to visit one of those home improvement websites.
When he goes out for beer, rummage through his belongings. See if he has tools. At a bare minimum he should own a drill, a full set of screwdrivers/socket wrenches and a full complement of power saws. Don't be surprised to run across his stash of kinky porn.
Or else tear off your blouse when a tradesman visit your home to fix broken appliances. Offer up all your orifices to him. Give the sexual performance of your life, complete with multiple faked orgasms and anal action.
For chances are a guy who can fix your dishwasher is also adept at plumbing, electrical repairs and carpentry. And God knows you don't want to familiarize yourself with such mundane matters.
When I first got married and bought this dilapidated hovel, the only tool I knew how to use was a corkscrew. That changed in a hurry, as we were house-poor and things kept breaking down with alarming regularity. Through trial and error, I learned how to replace faucets and toilets, fix appliances and lay flooring. I've also hung drywall, wallpaper and crown moldings under the direction of my wife's ex, who is a jack-of-all-trades.
Yes, I am the household plumber, electrician, carpenter and handyman. The only time I've called The Guy was when our hot water heater went on the fritz. He expertly reached underneath it and moved the lever back to the "on" position. Turns out my then-toddler son had monkeyed with it. Total cost = $90. Never again, I swore.
So what qualities are you looking for in a man, woman or barely legal teen?
I have been having this ongoing debate with some joker who keeps posting to one of my old entries. Whoever this person is, they have inspired me to use one of my responses to them as fodder for a new entry on the art - and yes it is an art - of verbal combat.
Like Tsun Tzu before me, I hope these rules for verbal combat whether they be for letters, emails, comment boards or presidential debates will form a tome that will be studied centuries after I am gone.
1) really smart people don't go on about how smart they are. much in the same way that really cool people don't worry about how cool they are or constantly try and remind people of how cool they are by saying "i'm so much cooler than you."
2) even if one is blessed with an amazing vocabulary, one does not heave every single "big word" they know out there at once just to impress people because ... see no. 1.
3) if you are going to use a shitload of big words a. get your grammar down pat first and b. use the words correctly because...
4) synonyms you find in a thesaurus really arent interchangeable, they are just similar. for example, if you want another way to say 'beautiful' and you go to your thesaurus and it says 'pulchritudinous,' you can't just say that 'Gwyneth Paltrow is pulchritudinous' because the word means 'beautiful like a young boy.' using verbs and nouns like adverbs and adjectives and vice versa is usually a dead give away that you don't know what you are talking about.
5) never call for a truce after a long public exchange when you and everyone else reading can tell who the winner is. you know when you're beaten, just admit it and THEN maybe mutual respect will follow. there is nothing sadder than someone who can't hang who tries to get the winner to bow out to save their self esteem. either that or just give up without comment and let them wonder.
6) just because you are the smartest thing on the "Queer as Folk" message board doesn't make you Bertrand Fucking Russell. Don't assume because you whipped the piss out of some 6th grader pretending to be a 34 year old marketing executive for GM doesnt necessarily mean you are the greatest communicator since Cicero.
7) Don't pretend to be something you aren't, it will come through in your writing every time. By being your pathetic self, you improve your pathetic self through combat. if you pretend to be someone else, the only thing you improve is your silly assed online persona i.e NOTHING.
The bloody fight with Iraq has overshadowed the all-important War on Muslim Terrorism lately. But I, your faithful correspondent, have continued to scour the back pages for news about the latter. Frankly, the Iraq deal is starting to numb my senses.
Here's the latest: Zacarias "Can I Buy A Consonant" Moussaoui has maintained all along that while he is a member of Al Qaeda, he played no role in the Sept 11 debacle. Thus, arguably, he doesn't deserve the death penalty. Now it turns out that the two masterminds of the plot have corraborated his story. They both say he was in the US as part of a second wave of airborne attacks, possibly to involve biological weapons.
US prosecutors are much chagrined at this news, because conspiracy to commit murders that haven't occured yet isn't punishable by death. But I myself am elated at hearing this. It means that authorities may have stymied our foes' efforts to perpetrate Sept 11 II. So why wouldn't they now approach this dick and offer him a deal: Freedom for information on his co-conspirators, who presumably are still @ large and plotting to kill your babies.
Meanwhile, American Taliban John Walker Lindh is serving out his hand-slap sentence that resulted from a plea bargain. It pays to be a rich white boy in America, as fellow American citizens Jose Padilla and Mr. Hamzi could surely testify. Both of them are being held incommunicado in hellish military brigs. Courts have ruled that detaining them this way forever is perfectly legal. Same goes for hundreds of suspected terrorists being held (and tortured) without charges down in Cuba. Well, maybe not forever. Once the War on Muslim Terrorists comes to a neat and tidy close, they can be released. Right.
Something isn't quite right with this picture, clearly. What in the hell should be done with these people? Shouldn't there at least be some uniformity in how we deal with them? What if we capture the big fish, as appears increasingly likely? What do we do with him?
by mg at 09:49 AM on March 27, 2003
Yes, I promised I wouldn’t talk about the war. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about it. And, this isn’t a rant, so please feel safe reading on; you aren’t likely to get (very) mad at anything I have to say.
I’ve listened to everything everyone has had to say about action in Iraq, from Bush to Nader, from the Young Americans for Freedom to ANSWER, from Rush Limbaugh to Michael Moore, and I came to a conclusion that this war is a just and legal one.
The real turning point for me was Colin Powell’s utterly convincing presentation before the United Nations. Yet, somehow Powell wasn’t able to convince enough nations to support a final resolution against Iraq. I was shocked. Were these people listening to the same speech I was?
And then I realized, they weren’t.
If you take a look at our biggest allies in the coalition, you’ll find England, Australia, and Spain. What do two of these countries share with the United States? A common language. The third, Spain, speaks Spanish, a language George Bush speaks fluently (probably more so than English). The reason they were convinced is because they could understand what we were saying. “But,” I thought, “surely the United Nations must employ the best translators in the world!”
So, I decided to do a little digging. After countless hours of research in libraries across the city, I decided to just check their website, and it was then that I hit the jackpot. The United Nations uses Babelfish translation services, and if you’ve ever used Babelfish, now it is perfectly clear to see why communication broke down. Bush can speak to Blair, Howard, and Aznar in their native languages, but the rest of the world is getting these dubious Babelfish translations.
Considering my awesome lingual powers, I took Colin Powell’s February 6th presentation before the United Nations, translated it using Babelfish, and then translated it back into English myself, all in with the intent to figure out exactly what the foreign delegates were hearing. Here are a few examples:
What Powell really said:
What you will see is an accumulation of facts and disturbing patterns of behavior. The facts on Iraq's behavior demonstrate that Saddam Hussein and his regime have made no effort -- no effort -- to disarm as required by the international community. Indeed, the facts and Iraq's behavior show that Saddam Hussein and his regime are concealing their efforts to produce more weapons of mass destruction.
What the French heard:
"I offend people. I ask this lady a lewd question because I'm in a lot of pain. I have some pain I'm gonna have for the rest of my life. So every now and then, I kick your fucking ass and stomp on you and put some kind of pain and inflict some of the pain on you because you deserve to feel the pain that I feel. I wish that you guys had children so I could kick them in the fucking head or stomp on their testicles so you could feel my pain because that's the pain I have waking up every day."
What Powell really said:
Nothing points more clearly to Saddam Hussein's dangerous intentions and the threat he poses to all of us than his calculated cruelty to his own citizens and to his neighbors. Clearly, Saddam Hussein and his regime will stop at nothing until something stops him.
What the Syrians heard:
”Through the Dark of Future's Past, magicians long to see. One chance out between two worlds; ‘Fire Walk With Me.’ Head's up, tails up, run your scallwags. Night falls, morning calls, I'll catch you with my death bag. You may think I've gone insane, but I promise, I will kill again!”
What Powell really said:
Resolution 1441 was not dealing with an innocent party, but a regime this council has repeatedly convicted over the years. Resolution 1441 gave Iraq one last chance, one last chance to come into compliance or to face serious consequences. No council member present in voting on that day had any illusions about the nature and intent of the resolution or what serious consequences meant if Iraq did not comply.
What the Russians heard:
“Well, to clarify, I meant INTERSPECIES SEX, but STRAIGHT INTERSPECIES SEX... I mean, I don't jerk off dogs, or let a male dog suck my dick, but FELINE FEMALE CATS... um... you just lured me into an ugly trap... Okay, it's just that my ultimate fantasy would be fucking a big cat, like a leopard or tiger (doggy style) and then bite her ear upon ejaculation. I dunno, and then the issue of INTERSPECIES/INTERRACIAL SEX comes about. IF I fucked a panther, would that be the aforementioned?”
What Powell really said:
Iraq has now placed itself in danger of the serious consequences called for in U.N. Resolution 1441. And this body places itself in danger of irrelevance if it allows Iraq to continue to defy its will without responding effectively and immediately. The issue before us is not how much time we are willing to give the inspectors to be frustrated by Iraqi obstruction, but how much longer are we willing to put up with Iraq's noncompliance before we, as a council, we, as the United Nations, say: “Enough. Enough.”'
What the Cameroonians heard:
”See this? This is my boom stick! The 12-gauge double-barreled Remington. S-Mart's top of the line. You can find this in the sporting goods department. That's right, this sweet baby was made in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Retails for about $109.95. It's got a walnut stock, cobalt blue steel, and a hair trigger. That's right. Shop smart. Shop S-Mart. You got that?”
And, I didn’t even know that Babelfish had this capability, but they have an English to Liberalese translation function.
So, when Powell said:
We have no indication that Saddam Hussein has ever abandoned his nuclear weapons program. On the contrary, we have more than a decade of proof that he remains determined to acquire nuclear weapons.
This is what the liberals heard:
“I can't dislike you, but I will say this to you: you haven't got long before you are all going to kill yourselves, because you are all crazy. And you can project it back at me, but I am only what lives inside each and every one of you.”
There you have it. Definitive proof that if the United Nations weren’t shaving a few bucks off their operational expenses and using a free online translation service, none of these diplomatic problems would ever have happened.
Yeah, like, i just had a couple of white russians, so I thought now would be the perfect time for a drunken post.
I realise that I havn't posted in, like, ages, but i have been busy, no? hell, I don't even have my computer. It's why I am using a mac. At uni. Where i am currently studying a honours in science, at least until this whole war thing tides over. What's with that anyway? The US finds a group of Kurdish fundamentalists in Iraq, and thus decides to bomb Iraq? It's a little like bombing Florida to get at drug trafficers in Mexico. Speaking of which, I live with one. A Mexican, that is. 'Cept he's never home, so he may be a drug dealer as well.
Regardless, this whole "freeing Iraq's people" thing doesn't wash. It's about 20 years too late to be doing that. There are two certainties: the Kurds and the Iraqis will be screwed, and there's more to this than oil, freedom or terrorism.
Enough about war. More about me.
Um, I've moved out of home, but that doesn't stop me visiting my parents as often as possible, although my sister does.
The chick I dig is now just a casual aquaintance, who I see every once in a while, because we are now both tutoring 2nd year biochemistry classes. It's obvious that she don't dig me and I have no feelings for her. Sure, I occationally yell out her name when I feel alone, but that's because her name has become a euphemism for my yearn for messy sex and post-cortius shallow deep talk.
part 4 (or whatever), like, later. when, like, i'm less pissed, yet alone for long enough in my lab to write a post. yes, i have a lab. CAPITALS@!
So I got a new computer -- all my favorites are back, but all my auto-logins are gone.
That's not why I haven't posted here lately, but it's one of several viable excuses.
Went to England for awhile; that's a pretty good reason to not post, I guess (since I couldn't remember the arcanely-nested address for the MT.cgi directory on BadSam even if saved my own mother's left hand). The trip was good; better was the fact that while I was in England I was getting email from someone who wanted to give me a job. A different job -- one that doesn't involve the people I'm currently working with -- not that there's anything wrong with the fact that they spy on my website and hold every goddamn thing I write against me as a personal slight.
So, new job = all good things.
Got back and had an interview. Nailed it.
Week later, had another interview. Wow them again.
Then, nothing... nothing but my persistence to make sure that the Slow Beast of Large Company Cogs keeps plodding along towards the inevitable conclusion where I get my offer letter. I email for the next step; I find out it's supplying references. I supply them, wait another week. I'm preparing another 'what's up?' letter when I start getting mail from my references about being contacted and blowing my horn for me.
[Is this boring yet? Well, barring talk of blizzard conditions, my kid's broken wrists, and my wife's sunburn, this is all I've got, and I don't want to be a non-posting schlub, so bugger off.]
If things went to plan, my final reference should have gotten a call today. Unfortunately he's having a lousy day, so while I feel for him (like a good samaritan) I more importantly hope it didn't queer the conversation (like a proper Bad Samaritan).
That's where I am: new computer with lots of memory and no internet cookies, a potential job, and not enough sleep.
But at least I'm getting caught up on reading and posting to my blogs. There is that. God knows I've got my key obligations -- gotta keep MG happy -- lord knows that man is dead sexy, and those are the kind of connections a person has to cultivate.
Ah, the French. MG referred to our blind hatred them. He obviously isn’t alone in this sentiment. Just as clearly, it couldn’t possibly be quite that simple or as the French would say, facile.
Today we’ll be getting to know our new bitter enemies and hopefully gaining a better understanding of what makes them tick. But first, a little misguided stereotyping would seem in order: The French are a bunch of slovenly, wine-guzzling, snail-eating, promiscuous surrender monkeys with all the perseverance and tenacity of a candle in the midst of a tsunami. A French groom views the bridesmaids as his personal harem. French chicks are wanton sluts who don’t even bother to shave their underarms or legs. Even though they’re ugly as sin and smell worse, the French parade around their beaches buck naked with pendulous breasts and bellies lolling down to their knobby knees.
Or are they? According to their website, the French are 58.3 million strong. Of that population, 26 million hold down full-time jobs of which 19 million are salaried. True, they take twice as much vacation as Americans, but at least they report for work. That is, unless they’re too hung over from all that wine-guzzling, no? Wishful thinking, I’m afraid. French wine consumption is going down while Brits’ affinity for the grape is on the rise.
It’s indeed a fact that Frenchmen scarf snails, which most rightly find disgusting. But it turns out that escargot is a delicacy like pan-seared beagle in Korea. Since you can’t just pick up any old driveway slug, slather it in garlic butter and call it escargot, the average Pierre never gets (or has) to try what must be an acquired taste.
True, the French army hasn’t fared so well when they’ve tangled with their German neighbors. German soldiers’ jackboots invariably wind up pressed on their gullets, as other Krauts Roman Polanski them with bayonets. But if you go a little further back in history, you’ll see that they once mixed it up with England for 230 freaking years! Specifically, they soldiered on from 1336-1565. (Why it’s then called the Hundred Years’ War is anyone’s guess.) Folks, we’re talking six generations.
Moreover, contrary to popular beliefs, my research shows that 80% of French women use deodorant. A comparable percentage shave too. Turns out the French are like, fastidious or something.
According to this site, French wenches are quite flirtatious as well. Yet that doesn’t necessarily equate to promiscuity. In fact, most teases I’ve known don’t put out unless you slip them roofies. Or at least it takes longer to bed them as compared with their more reserved counterparts. It’s also true that they are unabashed when it comes to nudity. But if you’ve got it, hey, then flaunt it.
And as it turns out, many French men and women are quite the head-turners. Although I did find it odd that Mister France isn’t the muscle-bound beefcake his American counterpart is. Some of these guys look downright frail.
I’ve only known one French guy. His name was Phillip, a blonde, blue-eyed exchange student who looked like a frailer version of those studs in the link above. You could fracture his arm with your bare hands. Yet girls flocked to him while jealous guys wanted to kick his ass. I befriended him, figuring I’d snag some runoff action. Smug as ever, Phillip once said to me, “These American girls are such, how do you say... whores.” He hadn’t gotten so much as a French kiss in his homeland, let alone the slobbery blowjobs he enjoyed here.
This Romeo got more head from American gals than Ron Jeremy. And look how he showed his gratitude.
by mg at 12:13 PM on March 25, 2003
Apparently, some people have been turned off by the serious discussions going on around here recently. So, in order to encourage harmony, I thought I’d only talk about things that everyone can agree with; kittens sure are cute. The end.
by mg at 09:59 AM on March 24, 2003
Last year I did a post-Oscars edition of I Never Though I’d See You Naked. I was planning on doing it again this year, but most of the nominees were the same. I didn’t actually watch a second of this year’s ceremony, not because I thought the actors were selfish for holding a celebration while people were dying, because I believe that while we should forget what is going on, we really have no choice than to continue with the daily rituals of our life.
Sure you should get on with your life, but that doesn’t mean I have to watch you do your silly rituals. My attention last night was held a little more raptly wondering whether the American prisoners of war were being treated all right, rather than wondering whether Martin Scorsese would finally get his statue.
So, yes, I would have had no problem looking for naked pictures of Oscar nominated actresses, I just didn’t want to. Besides, I think any effort to find nude photos of Kathy Bates and Queen Latifah would have surely turned me gay.
Still, I’m glad I didn’t watch the ceremony, because something that happened last night would have really infuriated me. No, It wasn’t Michael Moore’s acceptance speech; I learned to tune that guy out a couple weeks after September 11th when he joined the crowd declaring America deserved what happened.
What really infuriated me about last night’s Oscars is that the same people who decry Bush as an evil man can stand up and cheer for Roman Polanski.
The next time you hear Susan Sarandon, Martin Sheen, or Sean Penn talking about an “unjust war,” remember that these are the same people who gave Polanski, a man who raped and sodomized a 13 year-old girl a standing ovation. Bush and the United States, on the other hand, have proven to be as humane as possible during this war, unlike the Iraqis, who’ve already broken the Geneva Convention accords in it’s treatment of American POWs, and have killed at least 9 coalition soldiers in sneak attacks following a feigning surrender.
I don’t blame Hollywood for having a party, but I do blame them for being so out of touch with any concept of morality or reality that they can’t find justification in a war to liberate a people kept sick and hungry by a rapist, and murder for 25 years, yet can cheer for a man who raped a child and has evaded justice for 25 years. I hope no really pays attention to what any celebrity has to say about public policy, but if you do, stop and think about where these people’s values really lie.
by mg at 05:46 PM on March 23, 2003
The last time I willingly attended church was just a few weeks after September 11th, more than two years ago. I’m not exactly sure what it was that woke me up so early on a Sunday, after only about four hours sleep, or what compelled me to visit St. Joan of Arc’s this morning, but there I found myself.
I hate church. I was one of those kids, who from a very early age knew the whole organized religion thing was about as believable as the love between Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez. I was forced to Sunday school every week for seven years. What pissed me off most was that I had to wake up early, sit through three hours of indoctrination, while my mom stayed home and slept in.
The thing about Sunday school is that it just never ended. If we weren’t preparing for First Communion, or Penance (would mortal sins does a 3rd grader have to confess?), we were polishing the Priest’s crucifix back in the rectory (oh, right, that’s what we had to confess). By the time I was preparing for my Confirmation, at around 13 years old, I knew I wanted out, not just of Catholicism, but the whole god business.
I was forced to become a Christian soldier, but went AWOL shortly thereafter.
After 9/11, I made the trip back to church, something I hadn’t done willingly for several years. Like so many people, I was there to join in fellowship with my community, to feel the familiar strengths in the rituals of my childhood, and to get in that last couple good deeds, just in case this really was the end times.
I suppose each of those was true for again today.
Now, my neighborhood has a very high Hispanic population, so any church, especially one of Catholic flavor, is going to be packed on any given Sunday. In fact, the local church even has a separate Spanish language mass, which is as widely as attended as the English.
Guess which one I wandered into?
Not that it mattered much, because I wasn’t really there to be preached to. I was there to be around other people. I was there to be a part, at least for that hour and change we all shared a pew, of a community that loved each other, cared for each other, and were sharing a common goal. Of course, that common goal was the glorification of God, but I’ll take what I can get.
Which should also explain why I found myself amongst the protestors yesterday. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a poster-child for the anti-war movement. But as my class got out Saturday morning, I felt compelled to walk over to Union Square. I met the mass of protestors there, and walked against the flow up the entire length of the protest, from 14th Street up to Times Square (about a two mile hike).
Sure, a part of me was there to witness the Tools on Parade, but another part just wanted to be around people who were passionate about something, and were sharing the kind of collective moment so rare in life. Unfortunately, it wasn’t so much a moment as it was a spectacle. If Jane’s Addiction were playing, I’d have sworn I was at Lollapalooza. There were as many people holding cameras as holding signs. I got the impression many were there for the same reason I was, to take a good look at the parade, there probably wont be another one this big in New York until next time the Yankees win the world series (so, about 6 months).
It is interesting to compare this to the St. Patrick’s Day parade which was just a couple weeks ago, because for that one day, everyone was Irish (if only for an excuse to drink). Yesterday, everyone was a Peace-Protestor, if only for the chance to snap a few pictures, maybe get on the news, and, of course, have a story to share with their grandkids about how they “saved the world from the evil George Bush.”
Even though I spent a good hour wandering amongst the protestors, I didn’t feel a thing. Church this morning, was a different thing altogether. Sure, my Spanish is so rusty that I was able to grasp about as much of what the Priest was saying as I was able to understand the illogical rhetoric of the protestors, but I still felt like I was part of something.
Now, this isn’t likely to turn me into a peacenik, or get me recant my heathen ways, but being amongst people who at least cared enough about something to show up was a good feeling.
So I’m cowering in my bunker with eyes glued to CNN. General Tommy Franks is matter-of-factly discussing the ongoing carnage in Iraq. I hark back to 1991, when Colin Powell played that role with much aplomb. Powell inspired awe whereas Franks seems merely...competent. Maybe it’s because he calls himself Tommy.
I’m safe as sex with a used condom down here. Spring is here at last. All is calm on the home front. The war appears to be going swimmingly. I should be happy but I’m not. I feel disillusioned and I’ll tell you why: I crave new heroes. As an aspiring standup comic, I used to idolize Richard Pryor. Then he got hooked on coke, made a series of awful movies with Gene Wilder and caught on fire. Now he’s a pathetic shell of his former vibrant self, inexorably wasting away.
In sports, I admired Mohammed Ali. He combined smarts, agility and deceptive punching power to dominate opponents. He also showed the courage of his pacifist beliefs in giving up the best years of his career. But just look at him now. His buff daughter could kick his ass.
I also admired plucky Swiss tennis phenom Martina Hingis. When she first burst upon the scene, she bad-mouthed tennis legends from Steffi Graf to Monica Seles. She then proceeded to back it up on-court, ruthlessly driving both into early retirement. She did so while maintaining her aura of femininity, unlike many of her homely, muscle-bound rivals. Now she’s poised to retire herself at the ripe old age of 24.
In music, I looked up to Bob Dylan. Despite his mediocre singing voice, he became the poet laureate for an entire generation. Though recorded in 1966, Like a Rolling Stone still resonates today. Since then, Bob’s gone through a painful and messy divorce, almost died and has been reduced to a nonstop world tour of small venues. His son Jakob has garnered more fame as leader of the Wallflowers.
On the world stage, I dug Slobodan Milosevic. Even as bombs pummeled his country, he remained defiant. He openly mocked Bubba Clinton’s sissified approach to the War Over Kosovo, daring his nemesis to fight like a man. Slobo Dan lost the war, got snatched from his homeland and is currently defending himself in a mock trial at the World Court. His ordeal is widely expected to last forever.
Nelson Mandela spent most of his life in prison, got out and almost single-handedly abolished apartheid. Then he launched a cruel vendetta against his own wife Winnie, whom he threw in jail. Most men would been making up for lost time, slathering her with pearl necklaces 24-7. One must wonder if he got turned around while incarcerated.
While I disagreed with his politics, few would deny that Ronald Reagan was a captivating orator. Now his wife Nancy is thinking for two. He’s got an airport, a battleship and a Federal office complex named after him though he’s not even dead yet. There’s something pitiful about that.
Problem is that in today’s topsy-turvy world, celebrity has supplanted heroism. Charisma gets mistaken for valor. Peons ooh and ah over actors and actresses even though they are all self-absorbed, unpatriotic hedonists with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Tomorrow you’ll see them backslapping in all their finery at the fucking Oscar extravaganza. In a nod to USA vs. Iraq, they’ve forgone the red carpet that is traditionally spread before them on Hollywood Boulevard. Some will don “peace pins.” Among the preening peaceniks will be gasbag Alec Baldwin, who promised to flee this great nation if George W. Bush ever won the election from hell. I stand prepared to purchase him a one-way ticket to his beloved Baghdad. If you're out there Alec, my Visa # is 4321 6662 6969.
Skeptics need only consider that in ‘97, Princess Diana and Mother Teresa bought it the same week. Whose funeral drew the most intense media attention?
So help me out. Name a single living or freshly deceased person worthy of hero worship. Or for that matter, a true antihero alive today. A Patrick Bateman for the new millennium, that's what we need.
by mg at 08:43 AM on March 22, 2003
As the war swings into high gear and everyone’s attention is held rapt by the images we are receiving in Iraq, I think the big picture has been lost here – what ever happened to our blind hatred of the French?
Lawmakers and restaurant entrepreneurs around the country have shown their patriotism by renaming French Fries to “Freedom Fries.” Sure, French fries are actually Belgian, but to tell the truth, we probably shouldn’t trust the Belgians either. You can’t live next to France for that long and not get a little French yourself. It’s like all those people who say they’re Canadian. Come one, if you live in North America and aren’t Mexican, you are practically an American. And you better believe that when things are settled in the Middle East, we’ll be turning our eyes on you, Canada, and making that “practically” a reality.
But, back to the practically French Belgians. I would encourage a boycott of Hercule Poirot. Also, we should boycott Belgian Waffles. Actually, they are too tasty to give up, so we should just rename them to “Free Baghdad Waffles.” Or something similar, I’m not nearly as creative as Congressmen. As for other morning foods, I’d like to piggyback “The-Rootie-Tuti-Fresh-And-Fruity” onto the embargo agenda, not because it is un-American, but just because it’s really embarrassing to have to say that out loud when ordering breakfast at the International House of Pancakes.
I also think we should boycott comedian Dawn French. Sure, she is English, but we need to draw the line somewhere, and I don’t think anyone would disagree that that line is an English actresses named after countries we have political disagreements with. Heck, we should move that line back even further and ban all the old episodes of A Family Affair. I’d say we should also ban episodes of the new version of A Family Affair (starring Tim Curry as Mr. French), except that it’s on the WB and no one watches it anyway.
Further changes that should be enacted: Renaming “Paris, Texas” to “We Love George Bush, Texas.” Also, the Marines basic training camp, “Parris Island,” should be renamed to “We will be invading you next Paris Island.”
Many people have also chosen to boycott the music of the Dixie Chicks because of their recent anti-George Bush remarks. Since most of my readers probably have all their own teeth, you’ve probably never been compelled to buy a Dixie Chicks CD in the first place. Still, if you feel the need to boycott something, here are a few Dixie related boycott suggestions:
Dixie Cups. Since I’m an adult and not incredibly lazy, I don’t actually use disposable cups, plates or silverware. And, in any effort to impress Linz, I’ll add that I don’t use plastic cups because I really, really care about the environment. But, there are certain situations where they are useful, most notably in doctor’s offices. If you’ve got an upcoming appointment and your doctor asks you to pee in a cup, you should do it. But, when you are done, instead of handing it to the nurse, find your doctor, throw the cup and your diseased urine in his face and yell “Take that Doctor Hussein!”
Dixie Carter. Sure, this means you’ll also have to forgo the irresistible Delta Burke, but if you really want to support your troops fighting over in Iran, not watching Designing Women for a few weeks is a small price to pay.
This is a very important time in American history. Our sons, husbands, brothers, and fathers are over there fighting for our freedom. It is time to put away the petty differences we have. It doesn’t matter if you are black, white, or yellow. Jewish, Islamic, or Zoroastrian. As long as you aren’t French, Belgian, or somehow related to the Dixie Chicks, we need to come together and support one another, in this time of crisis more than ever. God Bless America (except for the three members of the Dixie chicks), and God Bless our English allies (except for Dawn French and Tim Curry).
Rayanne: interesting profile
RandomGuy1234: Interesting in a good way?
Rayanne: hey, you're quoting allen AND wilde, that's very good
RandomGuy1234: Well, you have good taste
Rayanne: i like to think so
Rayanne: where in brooklyn did you move from?
RandomGuy1234: Park Slope
Rayanne: no way... that's where i live
RandomGuy1234: Where abouts?
Rayanne: south slope - xxth street
RandomGuy1234: I was over by yyth Street
RandomGuy1234: Is xxth still Park Slope?
Rayanne: supposedly - i've had different people tell me i'm in south slope, greenwood terrace, and one guy even tried to convince me this was sunset park but i'm not having any of that
RandomGuy1234: Good - you stand up for your rights
Rayanne: i'm awfully principled that way
RandomGuy1234: So - you want to try out phone fun?
Rayanne: thought it would be fun... can't do the cyber thing; typing all those oohs and ahhs just doesn't get me there
RandomGuy1234: So true
RandomGuy1234: You are a wise woman
RandomGuy1234: Have you tried it before?
Rayanne: nope... always been curious about it though
Rayanne: i take it you're an old hand at it, so to speak?
RandomGuy1234: Ha ha
RandomGuy1234: Good choice of words
Rayanne: i was hoping to find someone to kind of talk me through things... i'm not sure how to go about this
RandomGuy1234: Well, hmmmm.....
RandomGuy1234: I can be your guide
Rayanne: how chivalrous of you
RandomGuy1234: Thank you
RandomGuy1234: I am nothing if not a gentleman
To be truthful, that wasn't my first time with the phone sex.
Next time, I'll introduce myself. Promise.
With all this talk about war with Iraq, I?ve noticed my name hasn't been getting bandied about nearly as much as it was a couple years ago. Now, I'm no egomaniac, unlike a certain "Mister-I-need-to-be-on-TV-everyday," but I'm sitting here wondering if you've all forgotten about me.
Remember me, Osama bin Laden? I've killed thousands of people? I bombed the U.S.S. Cole? I'm America's #1 Most Wanted criminal? I blew up the Twin Fucking Towers?
Two years ago my name was on everyone's lips, and today I can't even score an off-handed comment on the Rush Limbaugh show? Sheesh! When they say everyone gets fifteen minutes of fame in America, they really aren't kidding. The ways things are going, it looks like I'll have to pose naked in Playboy or do some lame B terrorist reality show just to get anybody to notice me at all. (I hear ABC is in production for I'm a terrorist: Hijack me out of here!)
What really bugs me is that I'm being preempted by Saddam "I've got more Twins than a Coors Light commercial" Hussein. I just don't understand what everyone's fascination is with that guy. Saddam as biggest threat to world peace is like Cindy Crawford being a supermodel. No one is quite sure how it happened, but no one remembers a time when it wasn't so.
I'm sure Hitler, Dick Nixon, Caligula, and the guy who thought you should play music in elevators are all sitting around together in hell laughing at all the people who think Saddam Hussein is true evil. When it comes down to it, Saddam is an absolute nobody compared to real tyrants.
He hasn't done a thing nearly bad enough to deserve all this attention. And, I should know what I'm talking about. You know what they say about people who live in glass houses not throwing Small Pox-headed Scud missiles? Well, I don't live in a glass house. I live in a cave.
In fact, just last night I was hanging around the cave with some friends and we were talking about Saddam. Between us, we couldn't think of a single thing he was guilty of that at least one of us wasn't guilty of ourselves. Drop people feet first into a plastic shredder? Done it. Raped a woman in front of her husband? Done it. Launch an unprovoked attack on Kuwait? Done it... well, gonna do it so maybe I shouldn't have mentioned anything about that.
Anyway. There is a reason why George and Tony couldn't get U.N. support for this "war." Because, like a sequel to Pluto Nash, people couldn?t care less about Saddam Hussein. You guys couldn't even get support from France, who, with the guaranteed victory in Iraq, could have brought their nation?s military average ever closer to that Mendoza Line.
Anyway, I just wanted to remind you all that I'm still here. I hate to be one of those kids in the back of class with my hand raised and all "Oh! Oh! Oh, pick me! Pick me!" But, you've seen the other way I have of getting attention. So, listen to me now, hear me later, and believe me never, I'm just asking for a spiteful word every now and then, an uranium tipped missile or two, and a little more irrational fear that'll I'll steal your children in the middle of the night.
I don't like being taken for granted, and you never know, you may turn around one day to look for me and find I'm off terrorizing China or something. You'll be sorry then, oh yes you will.
This is the first war of the Internet era. Thus we're treated to online polls, real-time coverage and AOL's war-o-meter. All of which confers an air of unreality to the hostilities. Some might even argue that it trivializes a momentous event.
That said, I'm not particularly interested in Iraq's array of death germs. But I am fascinated by soldiers involved in combat. Specifically I wonder about the mindset behind those stoic facades. And I think I've got a pretty good idea. If you ask me our brave warriors are "in the now," to borrow a Zen Buddhist term.
Rarely does modern man find himself in this hyper-focused state of mind. He's constantly distracted by petty workaday concerns. Seldom if ever is his life threatened, so he doesn't ever achieve total focus. GIs marching across the Iraqi-Kuwaiti border do.
Once I was sitting in a bar observing people and taking copious notes about their behavior. This, for you single folks, is an excellent pickup technique. Someone invariably saunters up and asks what you're up to. This instance proved to be no exception. Up popped a compact blonde factory worker named Crystal. "What you writin' in that journal there, sugar," she asked in a distinct Southern drawl. As I launched into my student-of-human-nature spiel, a slack-jawed yahoo approached. He proceeded to strike me in the face. His sucker-punch was so effective you'd have thought he was Mike Tyson before he lost his mind. I crumbled into a heap on the barroom floor. When I came to, a crowd had gathered with grave looks etched across their faces. The factory girl seemed particularly concerned. No thoughts crowded my mind. All I knew was that I felt emasculated and I wanted Crystal's redneck ex-husband dead. I was in the now.
Another time I spent a week in a logging camp. From sunup to sundown we'd fell huge trees. When you're a would-be lumberjack with trees falling in your immediate vicinity, nothing else matters. There is no past and no future. You are in the now.
I think I know how our troops are feeling. Although most probably wouldn't know a Buddhist from a Bud Light, they're in the moment. In fact, I bet they're more focused than Richard Pryor was running down the street ablaze.
And lastly in regard to the conflict, I have one observation about the news coverage. CNN keeps talking about its female correspondents who are "embedded with the 3rd Infantry Division." Somehow that seems a poor choice of words.
by mg at 09:27 AM on March 20, 2003
I case you are living in a cave (ha ha, funny, get it?), military strikes have begun in Iraq
For those who still insist on thinking the United States is acting on it's own, I'd like to point out that there are now more than 30 countries signed on with the coalition. Not all are providing military support, but all agree that every other option has been exhausted in Iraq. I don’t see how anyone can claim America (and the U.K.) are going this alone.
Sure, that 30something countries represent only about 1/6 of the United Nations, but 30 is a lot bigger number than 2. And sure, if we actually take a look at those countries, the coalition becomes a little less impressive, but even the Beatles had their Ringo.
Personally, I like to think of this coalition as the ass-kicking equivalent of the old Saturday morning cartoon Super Friends.
Of course, the United States Superman – bullets bounce off us, we can shoot lasers out our eyes, can leap tall buildings in a single bound, and are pretty smart to boot. Except for that pesky kryptonite thing, we pretty much don’t have a thing to fear in the world. We totally kick ass on our own, but we still like to hang out with our (slightly less) super friends. Friends like:
England who’d take on the role of Batman – they actually don’t have any superpowers of their own, but more than make up for with a combination of brains, determination, and awesome gadgets. Spain would be like Robin, Batman’s spunky partner, who, beside for wearing a really flamboyant outfit, and making a snarky comment now and again, is never really all that helpful in a fight. Australia is Wonder Woman – they look good in a bathing suit, and are a bit savage compared to the rest of the more civilized super friends, still, at least they speak English and come from the same planet. Japan is our Aquaman – they are both all about hanging with fish, but once you get them on land they really aren’t much use at all.
The Czech Republic and Slovakia are like the Wonder Twins, because it’s really too easy a joke to pass up. Iceland would be the Green Lantern, just because it’s another cheap joke. Italy is like Hawkman, because, uhm, their country is shaped like a boot, and he had a hat shaped like a pair of wings. Yeah, that’s it. Ethiopia would be the Black Vulcan, because they were both included just to make the group not look too racist.
Germany would be the Flash, because, damn, do they switch sides fast. Turkey would be Plastic Man, since they’re government is bending parliamentary decisions to help us out anyway. Eritrea, Uzbekistan, and Azerbaijan would be like Wendy, Marvin and Wonder Dog – it doesn’t matter which is which - since I’m pretty sure none of those actually countries, and were all just invented for the sake of the war, and will be totally ditched for the Wonder Twins when the ratings start to wane and the show needs to reinvent itself.
I’d keep going, but I’m running out heroes that appeared on any of the many incarnations of Super Friends. Thanks to our friends mentioned above, and those in Afghanistan, Albania, Bulgaria, Colombia, Denmark, El Salvador, Estonia, Georgia, Hungary, Korea, Latvia, Lithuania, Macedonia, Nicaragua, Philippines, Poland, and Romania for supporting us. Sorry I don’t know enough about your countries to make fun of them, but seriously, thanks for not being all French about this war.
by mg at 03:39 PM on March 19, 2003
Going against my self-imposed policy of only posting when I've got something purposful to say, I'm going to post this up since, well, no reason really. I can't imagine talking about anything but the war right now. Maybe someone else will come up with something fun to say, but I can't. I just want this war to get started so it can be over already.
Still, I wanted to mention that, in a show of support for our President, I'm picking the Unviersity of Texas to go all the way in the NCAA Tourney.
Amid all the chatter about impending war, rounding up Arab-Americans and terrorists holed up in your cabana, some might have missed this nugget: Research has shown that male body odor is a major turn-on for chicks. This certainly came as news to me. Nobody’s ever found the pungent aroma of my sweat appealing. In fact, the exact opposite is the case.
The other day I was rushing out the door. I uncap the deodorant only to find that it was all gone. The little piece that was left crumbled to the floor. That whole day I avoided close contact with coworkers lest they catch of whiff of my smelly armpits. It’s difficult to be effective in business when you stink and feel all self-conscious about it. That is, unless you happen to work in this field of endeavor.
I was once charged with the odious task of telling my subordinate that he stunk like a crusty gym sock. This was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. There is simply no delicate way to broach the topic of one’s stench. You have to be blunt. Feelings are bound to get hurt. I am not cut out for this sort of thing.
All of this got me to thinking about deodorant and its place in modern society. Contrary to what you young whippersnappers might believe, people didn’t always wear it. In the late 50’s, Mad Ave concocted the notion of body odor or BO. Products like Right Guard were offered to help combat this imaginary scourge. Of course, it was first necessary to foster the notion that your natural scent was undesirable. This was accomplished with a barrage of ads on TV and in magazines. Gradually the deodorant notion took hold and became ingrained behavior for most folks. Those who balked became pariahs.
Nowadays one rarely sees those ads, since Mad Ave has succeeded in creating a universal if artificial demand for a product that didn’t even exist fifty years ago. Thus it’s no longer necessary to drill the need for smell-good remedies into your heads.
The deodorant and mouthwash ads have been largely replaced by ads for prescription medications. Admen follow the very same script. Get people to fret over something like acid reflux disease eroding your esophagus. Offer a remedy and repeat it over and over again. Bingo! Profits pile up. Pharmaceutical laugh all the way to the bank. Pfizer revels in your misery.
For some reason, this guy who sounds like an auctioneer must rattle off a list of disgusting side-effects and potential risks of using this medicine or that. My personal favorite being, “women who are pregnant or who could become pregnant.” In other words, half the population is at risk for bloating, nausea or spontaneous combustion. They’ll require more remedies for the side-effects. It’s a vicious cycle.
Time was you never saw commercials for prescription drugs. Now you can’t escape them. Fact is, next to talk of Big Terror and its efforts to obtain weapons o’ mass destruction, this deluge of revolting ads has become the hallmark of this fledgling millennium. This isn’t a good sign.
On the other hand, some ads are downright hilarious. I myself am partial to that one for Miller Beer, where the two buxom chicks wind up flailing at one another in a mud pit. The bemused look on those gals’ faces at the bar is priceless.
Be they funny or irritating, admen know how to control your behavior. To them, we’re all marionette puppets on a string. Which is why they gladly cough up millions for a 30 second spot on the Super Bowl. It’s also why so many consumers insist on brand names rather than generics. (Although the Mad Ave menace did hit a rough patch in the 60s, what with the counterculture and its rejection of crass materialism. Hippies smelled bad, and they didn’t care. Admen retaliated by co-opting many aspects of the long-hairs’ style and ethos. But that’s all a distant memory now, no?)
So which ads irk you the most? Which ones tickle your funny bone?
<ed note>I think it’s about time to lighten the mood around here. Since, Revenge of the Nerds references aside, I’m not much in a frivolous state of mind, I thought I’d let someone else take a shot at it. This guest writer is looking for a shot in the regular rotation. Let her know what you think.</ed note>
Today I confirmed my long-held suspicions that I am, in fact, a geek.
Not only did I watch an entire episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation (I know, that's nothing) -- the only one worth watching, bar none... an opinion that probably lowers me to only pseudo-geek in the eyes of many -- but I then followed it up with a brief discussion of TNG with my dad, and then an immersion into First Contact. The latter was shared with my cat, who nuzzled the crap out of me. She may too be a geek.
Unfortunately, this experience was cut short by my needing to depart for class, but not before I had come to a realization:
I have a crush on William Riker, which is what makes a geek-loser, actually.
Ooh, I bet I offended some people there. Please keep in mind; I’m merely poking fun at myself here, no one else. If you’re in love with William Riker and watch ten million episodes of every Star Trek thing under the sun, then I’m happy for you. But he’s mine, and I’m going to marry him. So there.
Anyhow, it’s not so much Will Riker that I have a crush on so much as the romantic line between him and Deanna Troi. No, I’m not angling for a threesome although I have always thought she was the hot one. Hrmm.
Sorry, where I was I? Oh yes, romance. I’ve always been a sucker for romantic angles like these - old flames that persist like theirs, or unrealised love. That last one is a plotline that’s as old as prime time television: Caroline and Richard on Caroline in the City; Carrie and Aidan on Sex and the City (although that’s different and a whole other article); Tony and Angela on Who’s the Boss? - I could go on, but my knowledge of television is somewhat limited.
There’s something about that type of romance that really appeals to me. I guess it’s because I’ve been in the "I want him and I can’t have him" shoes so often that I completely understand it, and when it’s a guy yearning after a woman, it’s touching and payback at the same time.
Of course, it’s television ratings suicide when these characters unite, but it goes to show that I’m not the only one that feels this way. Lots of people like to see fictional people bashing their heads against the Brick Wall of Love, only to suffer the Concussion of Crushing, Heartbreaking, Unhappiness of seeing their True Love date Loser after Loser.
Maybe we’re all just malicious assholes at heart.
by mg at 09:58 AM on March 18, 2003
I’m really going to stop talking about Iraq now.
But, one more thing. Just a question really.
I’m guessing that there are a good number of people who’ve read this site for quite a while and know me reasonably well. For me this war isn't about religion, racism, oil, ignorance, or revenge.
I’m an agnostic. I live in one of the most ethnically diverse neighborhoods in the world; there are more nations represented here than in the United Nations (true). I don’t own a car, and don’t pay for the heat in my apartment. I may not know or read as much as some, but I don’t think anyone could say I’m ignorant about this. Sure, I’m still upset about 9/11 – during last night’s PBS special I had to change stations until I thought they’d stopped showing the towers burnings – but I know Iraq had little/nothing to do with what happened. I'm too old to be drafted, and I have no capital to worry about losing in the stock market or a terrorist attack, etc.
There is no selfish factor for my position on Iraq. Can you believe that?
I hope you people know me well enough to see that my desire for action in Iraq isn’t based on any irrational hatred, greed, or blood-thirst. I really do believe that America has a moral obligation to act toward affecting positive change in the world, especially when we had a major hand in causing the problem in the first place.
For me, this is all about ideology. Can you believe that?
And if you can believe that about me, can you believe that there are other people like me out there? Others that believe it is the duty of a world power to use its might to further democracy, support global economies, and protect not only our own and ally’s interests, but those of even our enemies?
And if you believe there are more people like me out there, can you believe that some of those people just might be the ones guiding American foreign policy?
I like to think of the United States as sort of like Ogre from the Revenge of the Nerds movies. Through most of the first two movies, Ogre was a member of the evil Alpha Beta’s, who made life impossible for the poor nerds by using his superior might to aid the fiendish goals of the Preppies. Yet, somewhere along the way, Ogre realized that he, too, was a nerd. He began to use his might for good. Oh, sure, the nerds didn’t quite believe he was really on their side at first, but he proved himself a true nerd in the end, and together they worked to defeat nerd-haters everywhere. Just like America.
Just because the United States has messy hair, is unshaven, and the majority of our dialogue through the first couple decades of the modern era have consisted of us yelling “Nerds!” in a nefarious way, doesn’t mean we really aren’t nerds ourselves, and don’t now want to use our power for good. Can you believe that?
i find it kind of funny, i find it kind of sad, the dreams in which i'm dying are the best i've ever had
by mg at 05:22 PM on March 17, 2003
In case you haven't noticed, the sites been real slow today. This problem is most evident with the comments, which have been all kinds of funky. If you submit a comment and get an error, don't hit back and try resubmitting the comment, because your comment was submitted. The error occured somewhere later along the line screwed things up. It's a CGI thing (hackers?). I'm looking into what is causing these errors now.
In news completly unrelated to the comment problems, but comment related in general, you can now subscribe to comments on individual entries. Which means if you want to be notified when comments are added within a particular discussion, you'll get an email everytime a new comment is added. This may or may not be a good idea, let me know what you think about it and whether it's working okay.
In completely unrelated to anything news, today is (m)Anna's birthday. Last week was Eviltom's Birthday. My birthday is a month away. If you buy me something now, you can make sure it gets to me in plenty of time.
There was something else, but its slipped my mind.
Well, things have finally come to a head with Saddam Hussein and Iraq. As Americans we have some very important and serious decisions facing us. Should we support military action or not being one that threatens to divide us.
I don’t see Saddam Hussein as the type of man who will accept exile. He will, probably, hang on until the bitter end, use human shields, ecological terrorism and try to draw us in to a street war in Baghdad. I don’t see any way we can avoid conflict at this point. If we back down Hussein will continue as he has for the last 12 years or so until he will finally be able to build a nuclear weapon or some other weapon of mass destruction. What kind of bargaining power would he have then for blackmail purposes? On the other hand, if we attack, a lot of the world will view us as warmongers who want oil.
I don’t really care if you are for or opposed to military action. That’s what makes our country and way of life as great as it is. The people have a voice, if they choose to use it, and, at times, can affect policy. Unlike most of the Hollywood types that are protesting because it is the “in” thing at the moment, the general American public, who opposes the war, feels that they are doing the right thing. Good for you. Protest. It’s a right you have been granted by millions of service members who have given their lives to protect your ideals and way of life.
The people I am worried about are the soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen who will actually be doing the work. It’s hard for a service member to have to put their lives on hold, say goodbye to their loved ones, go to a hostile country they might not come back from alive without the support of America. I’ve been there first hand and nothing is more debilitating, to a service member, than seeing your own country protesting your actions while you're stuck in a hostile foreign country scared and thousands of miles from those you love. I know when I deployed, to any hostile environment; I wasn’t going for our government. I was going because of my family, loved ones and the idea of America. I know our military members are ready and speak, in interviews, like they can’t wait to go to war but this is the farthest thing from the truth. You have to act like that for your survival and sanity, believe me.
The service member is the last person who wants to go to war. Sure, it’s what we train for every day but, except for that small percentage of idiots, we’d much rather stay home with our families. I guess what I am getting at is that I hope those who oppose the war don’t take the position of our government out on the military members who are being sent to fight. To this day it thoroughly disgusts me when I see video footage of how our troops were treated coming home from Vietnam. This, like Vietnam, is going to be an unpopular war. It will be resolved much faster militarily but we will have to occupy and rebuild Iraq which could take years. We’re going to make mistakes and innocent people are going to die. This is a sad fact of war and rebuilding efforts. If you want to protest our government, fine. Just don’t turn your protests toward the people who were sent to do a job they, more than likely, didn’t really want any part of in the first place.
bad news: and so this is christmas, for weak and for strong, the rich and the poor ones, the road is so long
by mg at 09:30 AM on March 17, 2003
President Bush, British Prime Minister Tony Blair, and Spanish Prime Minister Jose Maria Aznar met this weekend for a historic summit at the Portuguese Azores Islands to discuss the political impasse in the United Nations, and the possibility of military action in Iraq.
Today, the U.N. Security Council was supposed to vote on a resolution calling on Iraq to immediately and unconditionally disarm. If they fail to do so, the resolution called for a forced disarmament by a U.N. military action. Spain, the United States and Britain are the sponsors of that resolution, and the greatest proponents for taking a hard line against Iraq.
Spain’s Aznar said that today’s resolution was a last chance for a diplomatic solution, or a "one last attempt [for the United Nations] to reach the greatest possible consensus among ourselves." Bush, Blair, and Aznar spent yesterday speaking to members of the U.N. Security Council, trying to convince them to vote “Yes” on the resolution currently before them.
But, this morning Bush called a press conference to make a startling announcement. “After speaking with the leaders in Germany, Russia, and France, me, Tony and Jose Maria got on the phone again last night and talked things out,” said Bush from the lawn of the Rose Garden. “And we all agreed that maybe we were a little hasty about this whole Iraq thing.”
“I know when I got off the phone with Jacque, well, I started to doubt that what we were doing was the right thing,” Bush continued. “And then when I talked to Tony and Jose about their conversations with Vladimir and Gerhard, we realized we were all feeling the same way.”
Bush went on to say that they would be remove their U.N. resolution from debate. “We’re going to give Iraq all the time they need to disarm,” said Bush, who also announced that all 150,000 troops currently stationed in the Middle East will be withdrawn. “In fact,” added Bush, “Tony, Jose, and I felt so bad about this whole mess that we came up with a way to show Iraq, and Saddam Hussein personally, how sorry we are for causing all this trouble.”
“Like our French friends did when they gave us the Statue of Liberty, the United States, Britain and Spain, but mostly Britain and the United States, will send a statue to Baghdad representing our respect for their government, and the regret we feel for bringing things to the brink of war. As I’m speaking to you now, engineers at Lockheed Martin, Raytheon, and Northrop Grumman are working to design a statue that will represent our true opinions of Iraqi and it’s leaders.”
“I hear it’s going to look like a horse,” said Bush.
When questioned as to whether the resolution to the problem in Iraq will allow his foreign policy team to turn its attention entirely to North Korea, another hot bed of unrest, Bush responded that “they’ll be getting their horse a couple months from now,” and walked away laughing maniacally.
Whether you like it or not, war is imminent. George W. Bush is hell-bent on toppling Saddam and nothing short of assassination will deter him. The war will be a short, violent affair with U.S. forces prevailing in a route. It matters not whether any token allies tag along. Most likely they'd just get in the way.
The world's secon-largest oil reserve will then be ours for the drilling. Don't think for a second that we'll allow some new tyrant to rise up and take Saddam's place either. But here's where things get interesting on the War on Muslim Terrorism front. (Don't kid yourselves. Irish, Columbian or Israeli terrorists are of no concern to us.)
Here's the plan: Annex Iraq and make it our 51st state. Grant full citizenship rights to all the bickering factions therein. There's a precedent for U.S. states and territories overseas. Think Puerto Rico, Guam, Hawaii and California.
As for those Iraqis-cum-Americans, they'll be so thrilled with their newfound freedoms that they'll scarcely notice we've hoodwinked them out of their oil industry. They'll be dancing in the streets like those worthless Palestinian street urchins Sept 12, 2001.
Why do you suppose Arab fanatics despise us so? What, you might ask, are their beefs with us? Well, they want American troops out of sacred Muslim lands. They deeply resent our alliance with Israel. They want us to stop propping up corrupt Arab regimes like the one in control of Egypt. And they resent our culture, which they view as lewd and pernicious.
So cut off all foreign aid, including the $6 billion Egypt and Israel divvy up each year. Move all those U.S. troops to Iraqi America. Summarily decree that it is no longer an Arab or Muslim state. Stop exporting our music, movies and TV shows. Quit the U.N. In effect, slam the door in the namby-pamby international community's face forevermore. As Jerry Garcia once sang, we will get by. We will survive. In a pinch, we can spend that $6 billion + whatever we shell out in U.N. dues on extravagences for ourselves. I'll take a Hummer. Ha!
Forcibly wresting other people's territory away from them has gotten a bum rap in recent times. But how do you think we forged this great nation? We snatched it from Brits, Spaniards, Frenchmen, Mexicans and Indians under one shaky premise or another, that's how. Manifest destiny, baby!
Its rich bounty is rightfully ours solely because we were stronger militarily and more tenacious to boot. How has that changed here in the 21st & final century? Did someone change the rules in midstream?
What about poor little Israel and its alleged right to exist, you ask? First of all, Israelis are terrorists too, only armed with tanks, bulldozers and nukes. Secondly, it has no oil and thus doesn't matter. Thirdly, it has shown a remarkable ability to defend itself from aggression on its own. So let it.
The ingrates of Kuwait are another matter altogether. A poll showed that 80% of Kuwaitis deemed Sept 11 morally justified. Yes, the same bums we shed blood to protect! So we march in there and sieze their oil fields too. Call it American Iraquwait. Black gold, Texas tea!
Now in control of the world's largest oil reserves, our options are limitless. Saudi Arabia is just a hop, skip and a jump away. O sure, you laugh now but just watch.
It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.
by mg at 08:32 AM on March 15, 2003
You ever have that feeling like you were forgetting something? Ever lay awake at night wondering if you’d remembered to lock the front door, turn off the iron, or mail that Visa payment, only to get up out of bed and check all those things (and more) to find that everything is locked, unplugged, and sent?
Well, I’ve had that feeling since early last summer, and though the severity of that sensation has wavered, there was always an irksome feeling that I’d overlooked something very important. I finally realized this week that the nagging fear in the back of my skull was anxiety about kidnapped Utah teenager, Elizabeth Smart. And I hadn’t even known she was missing!
It’s a good thing that she was finally found. I can finally relax. And also I guess her family missed her and stuff. More importantly, she had an upcoming spot on ABC’s Teen Are You Hot. That girl’s quite a looker.
Still, there is a nagging something about this whole story. How, exactly, does a homeless preacher kidnap and hold a teenage girl for nearly a year, much of that time spent only miles from where he snatched her, without getting caught? Maybe if you’re a super criminal with a pair of night vision goggles and a senator’s daughter holed up in your oubliette, saving up enough girly-skin to make yourself a pelt, I can see evading capture for 9 months. But, I’ve you’re a homeless dude, begging for cash and crashing on strangers’ floors, how do you hold onto your victim without anyone noticing for three whole quarters? Enron couldn’t even hide the truth for that long.
So, am I the only one getting the impression that Miss Smart wanted to stay with the drifter? Police felt the need to announce they’re sure she was really kidnapped, which only encourages a skeptic like me to think maybe she wasn’t kidnapped at all. If that’s true, I’ve really got to wonder how a crazy homeless guy manages to score a hot 15 year-old as his second wife, while I’m sitting home alone on a Friday night singing Eric Carmen’s greatest hits?
It’s pretty obvious to me, having absolutely no real knowledge about this case other than what I read in today’s NY Post, that this girl wanted to be with crazy Mr. Crazy Beard.
And really, can you blame her? Her kidnapper may have been a creepy, homeless, polygamist, but have you seen her dad? If he were my pops, I’d be struggling to get away the moment I learned to crawl. Sure, there’s a long list of crazy bearded guys that’d might have made better options for a runaway partner (Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, Kevin Smith, any of the members of ZZ Top, Johnny Walker Lindh, Obi Wan Kenobi), but I’m guessing none of those guys were hanging around her house.
The alleged kidnapper was a hired by her mom to do maintenance around their house, after meeting him begging for money outside the local mall. Sending that girl back to her family would be like Child Protective Services taking Michael Jackson’s kids away and placing them in foster care with Paula Poundstone.
Eventually the true story about exactly what’s been happening the last nine months will be revealed, and I’ll be one of the millions glued to the TV when Elizabeth “Patty Hearst” Smart ultimately spills the beans about her time away. Even if I’m way off on my theory, this is bound to be an interesting story. For now, I’m happy just to speculate and glad to finally have justification for my previously unfounded suspicion of all bearded men and women wearing burkas.
I recently made great strides in the "quit being such a pushover with women" category. For years, any red-headed freak I ran into could just ask me for stuff and escalate and escalate until I was available at their beck and call and STILL not getting any pussy.
This has caused me great shame and ruined some friendships with people it is ultimately better not to be friends with but with whom I feel I could have enjoyed alifelong friendship had I merely been more of a real man instead of a big girl's blouse who would molly coddle anyone at 3 am no matter what I had to do the next day.
A little 19 year old friend of mine recently pushed me over the edge. She used to call me day and night with the stories of her sexual exploits, which would have been fine had it not been for the fact that they were genuinely unhealthy, drug induced experiences with guys who were taking advantage of her.
I stuck with her trying to get her on the straight and narrow, into AA, away from the freaks she thought were her friends. I succeeded and thought I had a good friend worth keeping. Then one day, she comes to my house from out of town with several of her AA friends. They are attending a regional AA conference in my neck of the woods and made no arrangements for a hotel. They were going to go camping but left it until late so I offered to let them sleep in my house if they wanted. they accepted.
That was the last I heard of my friend for months. My suspicion is that one of her AA buddies thought it quite odd that she had a big fat old creepy guy like me for a "friend". I am sure the 19 year old control freak convinced her I wad influence in spite of the fact that I am probably the only guy in the world who didnt just bend her over a garbage can and fuck her stupid when she was drunk. and believe me, I could have, but I'm not really that guy.
months went by. calls went unanswered. One day i was in her neck of the woods and rang her bell. she answered the intercom and I said hey its me let me in. she shuts off the intercom and wont answer the bell or her phone. the last message i left her was "I dont know what that crazy shit was about but you can call me when you are prepared to tell me."
Four months go by and I finally get a call at the worst possible moment. what do I get? Lies. I didnt KNOW it was you then when I realized it was you i was too embarrassed to call and I am supposed to be avoiding confrontations in AA and I thought you were the mexican drug dealer who screwed me once cause your voices sound similar and blah blah blah.
the last thing I ever told her was i don't buy that... click.
It kind of hurts but then sometimes the healing process does. In many ways I have been a professional victim for these chicks to do things to me no other man would allow. I mean, what man with any kind of self respect would let a woman use him and not expect sex? very few.
Recently, a woman of my acauaintence started pulling the sameold shit on me. Can I borrow a quarter, I am hungry bnut i dont have any money. It got worse until one day, I set up a story we could both work on because I knew she found the subject cool. She couldnt go because her kids birthday was that day and I had to hedar about it for two weeks, then she was going to have to leave early and THEN she wanted me to drive her there and then drive her back... early... and then GO BACK to the event after I dropped her off.
What do you think I said to that? OK. Fuckin dildo. The upside is that when I showed up to pick her up she was late. 10 minutes late to be exact and i said fuck it, I'm going. I left her a message and said I'm off. she called me five minutes later to bitch at me and I told her to fuck off and drive herself like an adult. when she showed up, she tried to guilt me. I refused to give in and told her, "you arent making me apologize, its bad enough you want me to cart you areound like a god damn cb driver, then youre late? WE ARENT MARRIED, LADY, I don't have to give a shit so you can either cheer the fuck up since you havent missed anythying or you can leave cause this is work, but I intend to have fun."
Sad as it is. this is like the first time in my life I feel like I have really taken control in a situation like this and tis still pretty sad since I shouldnt have let it get as far as it did.
this is part and parcel of the same old "why don't nice girls like me" bullshit. i know the answer to that one, but maybe a couple of you ladies could confirm for me that this is just some good old fashioned sadism thing, that some vagi-thugs just love to see how powerful the pussy really is.
Here is my thing about music. I can’t stand to listen to music that does not have some artistic element to it. The words, the music, the emotive quality of the two combined – something has to trip my trigger because I couldn’t give a damn about music by teenagers I can line dance to.
Now, I have to admit, I’ve never quite “gotten” the vast majority of country music. I certainly didn’t go for the “Hee-Haw” variety of country music that was popular when I was growing up and I like “hot country hits” even less.
There seemed to be no middle ground between yodeling old-timers and the quasi-amusing tunes about dead dogs, errant wives and everything else that constitutes the-less-than-flattering stereotype of country music.
For some odd reason, it is almost as hard to find depth in the concepts propounded by the vast sea of country musicians today than it is to find an intelligent thought in the diddies of teen pop idols whose only concerns seem to be demonstrating how sexy they are.
Luckily for me, what comes around goes around. What was once old is new again. The term “country music” gets used more by radio stations pushing a preformed package while Americana, roots rock, folk rock and alternative country have just taken off like a rocket in the college ranks. Artists like Billy Bragg, Wilco, Steve Earle, Lucinda Williams, Garrison Starr, Hank Williams III, Son Volt, Ani diFranco, Uncle Tupelo, Ryan Adams, Indigo Girls, Shannon Curfman, Junior Brown, Allison Krauss and that killer soundtrack from “O, Brother Where Art Thou” have all served to remind Americans that the roots of country music aren’t goofy, embarrassing redneck hayseed holdovers from an era best forgotten, but vibrant and living examples of music that can uplift us, inspire us as well as entertain us.
And if I look like a hick while listening to Johnny Cash ... who gives a fuck?
This shocked the shit out of me, the Dixie Chicks, a band from the overly-romanticized state of Texas, recently earned the scorn of country music fans and my respect by slagging off President George W. “The Usurper” Bush on stage in London.
Dixie Chick Natalie Maines said, “Just so you know, we’re ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas.”
OUCH! That’s GOTTA sting! I don’t know much about the Dixie Chicks, but I do know they are hot and nothing hurts quite so much as being publicly humiliated by really hot women. Within seconds, angry Nashvillians demanded a boycott of all things Dixie Chick at a local radio station. Soon they will be as endearing to country musicfans as KD Lang.
Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, the Beatles and now the Dixie Chicks. Who’dathunkit?
Charlie Daniels on the other hand wrote(?) and open letter to all celebrities who are opposed to our upcoming war. “You people are some of the most disgusting examples of a waste of protoplasm I’ve ever had the displeasure to hear about,” said Daniels, slipping in well-deserved shout-out to the organized complex of substances that constitutes the living nucleus of a cell. Not an outlaw is our Mr. Daniels, I guess and while I'm sure he thinks of himself as quite an American, I sure as shit do not.
Americans could really benefit from taking debate in school.
Lockheed requests a post about freedom fries and Hummers. Normally I wouldn't derive subject matter from suggestions, but this is a special case. First, I reserve a special place in my heart for this nut. Second, I'm fresh out of ideas.
Seems some congressman wants the Capitol Hill cafeteria to substitute "freedom fries" for "french fries" on its menu. He's also renamed "french toast" so it reads "freedom toast." This is part of a larger Franco-bashing trend that's sweeping the nation. A French-owned hotel in NYC has stopped flying the French flag. A boycott of their products is underway. Or not. I asked the manager of Total Wine about sales of French wine. He says traffic has been better than ever due to lower prices. So much for that.
It's gotten fashionable to denigrate the French as foppish, snooty ingrates who couldn't fight their way out of a paper bag. Central to this premise is their woeful performance in WWII. Thus today's Frenchmen should be eternally grateful to us for bailing them out. This is the same pretzel logic that brought you the idea that today's white Americans should empty their wallets in penance for the sins of their slave-driving ancestors. It's a laughable notion at best; xenophobic and condescending @ worst.
Putting aside my question about why any private citizen would need a Humvee, I have to laugh whenever I see those commercials for the Hummer 2. Ad campaigns aren't slapped together overnight. Car companies agonize over which names will entice their target market. So why didn't anyone speak up and say, "Hey, hummer is slang for fellatio. We don't want our product associated with dick-sucking."
Speaking of which, I still remember a flap over a Law and Order script that had a cop using "Lewinsky" as a euphemism for "blowjob." Mr. Lewinsky got all fired up, saying they'd impugned his daughter's pristine reputation. He missed the point entirely. The proper slang isn't "Lewinsky," it's "Monica." As in, how's about a Monica? TV screenwriters live in such an insular world. They are way out-of-touch. Like me, they need to get out more.
And besides, what's the shame in giving a little head now and again? Studies show that even in middle school, gals dispense oral favors with little or no hesitation. In my own experience, only one girl I dated ever balked @ it. She relented after I slipped her some roofies.
Well Lockheed, that's the best I could do on such short notice.
by mg at 10:14 AM on March 13, 2003
It’s time once again for another edition of Conspiracy Theory Corner. Well, this is the first edition, but maybe there will be others if the meds don’t kick in and even out that overwhelming paranoia I’m currently grooving on.
But anyway. I was watching American Idol last night and several realizations hit me in quick succession. First: Many people around the world hate Americans. Second: That repugnance, is based, in part, on a perceived predilection for pop culture. Third: Our infatuation with reality TV, and shows like American Idol, will only serve to make those that already hate us hate us even more. Fourth: Simon Crowley, the most consistently interesting part of the show, is a brit, as are the creator of the series. Fifth: The Brits are our greatest ally in the war against terror, solidly entrenching them as the second in power in the new world order. Sixth: When the terrorists strike again, it isn’t going to be in England. It’ll never be in England. Seventh: A sufficiently large attack by terrorists, or even North Korea, could cripple an already limp American economy, not to mention weaken our spirits. Therefore: Britain is foisting shows like American Idol on the United States in order to tarnish our reputation to the world, while simultaneously diverting our attention from larger issues. This is all done in an effort by England to regain the glory of it’s halcyon imperial days when America gets taken down. Those limey bastards.
Sorry I have been so quiet lately. I have been battling a nasty flu which left me temporarily incapacitated. It sucked and thank God it’s over.
That isn’t what I really wanted to tell you about though. I want to tell you about my blind date on Saturday. I met my buddy from work, his girlfriend, and her co-worker at a local grill/bar for drinks and dinner. Well, she didn’t ask me what I made in the first twenty minutes and was rather cute so I considered this a small victory. We ate, chatted, drank our drinks, and had some great conversation. I thought to myself “Damn. Have I finally found a normal person, in this bustling metropolis, that isn’t absorbed with material things and themselves?” The talk turned to music and she and I, again, were on the same page. “Son of a bitch! She may be the coolest person I’ve met here so far.” I found myself thinking again.
We decided to go catch a local band and continue our evening. We listened to some kick ass music, had more great conversation and drank a little more. We left there around two in the morning and went back to retrieve my car from the grill/bar. She and I got out and were saying what a good time we had when she asked me if I’d take her home. I told her it would be no problem at all. “Wooohaa, I’m gonna score” the devil in me announced. I didn’t know what a large contribution the devil would make to this evening before it was over. On the drive there she was leaned over the console and began kissing my neck. Now that’s what I’m talking about.
When we got to her apartment the first thing I noticed was an abundance of sculls and other macabre artifacts. She also had a bookcase filled with reading material on Wiccan rituals and THE Satanic Bible by Anton Szandor LaVey. I shit you not. She seemed to take my interest as positive and started explaining to me that she was a Satanist and had an affinity for the black arts. Oh shit! I don’t really care, so much, about what someone decides to worship but I will admit that this did startle me a bit. My buddy and his girl are agnostic and I have friends who are athiest which doesn’t bother me at all. They’re good peeps and it’s not like they work at the Satanic Church of D.C. I thought they may have just hit it off at work on terms other than those imposed by the Dark Lord. Seems I was wrong.
She, also, told me the story of her sometime on, sometime off husband. Husband! They were married in a Satanic ritual so it’s not like state sanctioned, but married is married. I’m a strange cat but even I have limits. I could just see taking her home to my religious, southern family. Over dinner, “So Amy, would you like to attend church with us on Sunday?” my father would ask. “Death to the Son of God and all of his weak minions!” she would scream. “The Dark One is coming to burn you all!” “Mmmhammhahaha.” (evil satanic laugh) Then her sometimes on, sometimes off husband would swoop in wearing high priest garb and sacrifice one of us.
Needless to say I bowed out gracefully and returned home. Come to find out, my friends, while they knew of her interest in the dark arts, didn’t know the extent of it. They damn sure didn’t know she had a significantly dark other. They apologized and I accepted. No harm done.
I swear. My friends are killing themselves laughing at my misfortune. I think I would much rather her have asked what I make, do, drive, the size of my Johnson, anything. I know, in an earlier post, I said I wanted someone off the beaten path but, fuck. I guess I should be careful what I wish for.
I am an avid sports fan. I follow the Redskins, who've been raiding rival teams' talent with impunity. I also follow the Wizards i.e. Michael Jordan. I agonized when he and his hapless mates dropped a heartbreaker to the Knicks last weekend. But this post isn't about sports per se.
Mike Piaza plays catcher for the Mets. He has had to fend off rumors that he allows other men to bugger him. You don't hear about many gay sports heroes, aside from figure skaters. Which isn't to put down gays, it's just that athletics generally isn't their forte.
A friend of mine we'll call Ben Dover faced a similar problem. He sported an earring in his left ear years before they became fashionable for men. Soon he was being accosted by strange men in rest rooms and getting goosed in crowded elevators. He found these developments so unnerving that he sought my advice. Evidently no one had told him about the "gay ear" deal. He fumed with homophobic rage.
My how times have changed. Gays have made great strides in today's society. They can marry in Vermont. Many companies allow domestic partners to gain health insurance. They need only attest to cohabitation and an intention to look out for one another's welfare. This is only fair and long overdue.
Indeed, some would espouse the notion that we're all gay to a certain extent. In other words, no guy would pass up an opportunity to salad-toss Brad Pitt. Likewise, any red-blooded gal would leap at the chance to carpet-munch Denise Richards. Wouldn't you?
I'm fine with all this. But I view the sports page as my refuge from the constant onslaught of gender-bending ambiguity. I can spend hours poring over box scores and sports statistics. So just imagine my consternation at running across imagery like this in my local mainstream newspaper.
What do these pictures say to you? Let your imagination run wild.
by mg at 03:14 PM on March 11, 2003
I’m lonely and I need money and I have no self-respect. What shall I do?
What? Hey, I’m lonely, need money, and have no respect. Have I been Memento-ing out, and been sending myself emails again? Wasn’t the star of Memento Guy Pierce? This is all a little too weird.
Okay, assuming this isn’t me sending emails to myself, I do have some bad advice for you, based on some news I read over the weekend. Did you hear about the “human shields” that went to Iraq to protest the war? About 200 people from around the world went to Baghdad last month to station themselves at potential military targets, based on the belief that war is wrong and under the delusion that any U.S. led military action would be called off for fear of killing any white people.
Their belief in a peaceful resolution is so great they are willing to risk their lives. Well, not exactly. Most of the human shields that traveled to Iraq have already left the country. See, they didn’t actually want to position themselves in front of any genuine targets. Those anti-war types tenuous grasp on reality has the U.S. bombing hospitals and schools, the Iraqis know better. And when Iraqi officials asked the human shields to actually shield something that might need shielding, most of the human shields decided they didn’t really care enough to risk their lives after all and high tailed it out of the country.
Apparently the force of their convictions is only strong enough to risk their lives if their lives aren’t in any actual danger.
So, there is now a huge hole in Iraq protecting areas that will soon be huge holes. Since you’re unloved, unemployed, and lacking in self-respect why not volunteer to be a human shield that’ll truly shield something? Here is how moving to Iraq and being a human shield will solve all your problems:
Unloved: Little children in Iraq are conditioned to hate anyone who isn’t Iraq. Heck, children in Iraq are pretty much hate everyone, even other Iraqis, how else could they not bat an eye as the thousands of Kurdish were murdered? But, hey, if you go out there and risk your life to protect theirs, they’ll refrain from yelling “Down with America” and “White Devil,” at least while you’re within earshot.
Unemployment: What better career choice than picking a job that a) could possibly get you kill, b) will probably get you killed, c) will almost definitely get you killed, and d) even if it doesn’t get you killed, it probably wont last more than a couple days? But, at least you can forget all your monetary problems, currently one American dollar is worth about four Iraqi Dinars, so you bring your pittance of a life savings with you, and you can live like a king.
Self-Respect: What can be better way to feel better to devote yourself to a cause worthy enough that dozens of people are willing to risk their lives for. Well, a cause not strong enough to risk their own life, but at least strong enough to inspire me to urge you to risk your life for. You’ll become a martyr, and your place in history will be guaranteed. At least until the Yanks storm in – you know how they always say the victors write the history.
And, if you somehow managed to come out of all this alive, you’ve still got a great future ahead of you. When the U.S. army (without or without the support of those pansies in the U.N.) marches into Iraq and picks you up as a traitor to your country you’ll get a fantastic trip to Guantanamo Bay. You know how few Americans get a chance to visit Cuba? Sure, it isn’t winter anymore, but it’ll still just be late March by the time the U.S. reaches Baghdad, and a free trip to the Caribbean in early spring is something I sure as hell wouldn’t turn down.
by mg at 11:39 AM on March 10, 2003
Someone once told me I was a cat.
Then, someone else told me. And then another. It's now gotten to the point where it happens frequently enough I had to stop and think about it seriously, even though my normal reaction is to completely ignore other people's opinions.
A cat is certainly not the animal I'd have chosen for myself, even if I were the kind of person to sit around and think about what kind of animal I am. Still, I can definitely see why people would make that leap; and it's not just because I lick myself in public and bury my excrement in sand.
There are other physical traits I have in common with the feline species, too. There is my need to climb things, and fascination with laser pointers, and my ability to fall asleep anywhere (but usually in patches of sun on the living room floor), and in any number of contorted positions (on top of sofa backs, wedged in dresser drawers). I also stealthily pad around, occasionally brushing up against people's legs as they try to wash the dishes.
But, more than anything, I think people make the cat analogy because of psychological characteristics rather than the physiological ones. Cats are traditionally aloof. You can't take them for walks or play Frisbee with them. They sure do love to be petted, but only when they deign to allow you to touch them; the rest of the time, they hide under beds and only Bast knows where else.
And remember that commercial from a couple Super Bowls ago? The cat herding one? Ever tried to get a cat to do a trick, or even just get off your bed while you're trying to have sex? It just isn't happening.
Unrelated to the whole cat thing I've been called aloof, cold, uncommunicative, and brooding. I haven't been told it quite as often, but when I do hear that it is usually from a soon to be ex-girlfriend, so I take it pretty seriously. I know it’s true.
I can go a whole day without talking or seeing another person, and not really care at all. And I’ll be the first to admit that if I could only figure out how to work a can opener, I wouldn’t need a single other person in my life. But there is one person that I want in my life; that I would gladly give up all my feline freedom to spend the rest of my life with her.
But, she is the dog to my cat. And like a dog, she needs constant affection, someone to rub her belly, take her for a walk when she needs to make, and go for long drives in the country with the windows open. Unfortunately, unlike anything you might have assumed by looking at a selection of Hallmark calendars, dogs and cats don’t really get along very well.
It’s hard to change who you are. It’s hard to be something for someone else, especially if it’s something you don’t need for yourself. But I’m trying.
I noticed we had a logjam of entries here on Friday. Hence this rare weekend post.
I'm an alumnus of this junior college. At the time it was one of those stepping-stone schools you go to when your grades suck ass but your family is rich enough to afford the tuition. Not surprisingly, Ferrum attracted an eclectic assortment of characters.
My two year stint there was the most surreal period of my life. While I have no dating nightmares to compare with Eff's, I do recall one particularly heinous hook-up incident. I awoke alongside a scraggly looking coed whom I'd met in a ditch behind the local bar, Switch's. She looked like this only more ghostly pale and rail thin. As I'm coming to my senses I become aware of a sticky, warm substance permeating the sheets. It was blood. I'm thinking, what the hell is this? Did I kill someone last night? About that time she awoke and cajoled me into buying her tampons. Guys don't like to buy tampons before downing a cup of coffee.
When I returned in a snit, she was finishing up a shower surely reminiscent of that bloody scene in Psycho. My bathrobe lay crumpled and bloodied by the stall. So I hustle her out to the car, wondering what to do about the sheets. En route to her dorm, she starts gazing into my eyes and singing some sappy song about putting someone high on a pedestal. It was all I could do to keep from shoving her bedraggled ass out the car. Were there any irony in this sequence of events, 'twas lost on me. In fact, I'd forgotten all about this dreadful experience until I saw a piece of escavation equipment called a Ditch Witch recently.
That night at Switch's, some joker had distributed gelatin capsules filled with powderized peyote buttons. One of this drug's side-effects is the need to vomit profusely. Thus, you had a barful of barfing students hallucinating. Several arrests were made. I daresay jail isn't a conducive environment for a pleasurable psychedelic experience.
A week later the bartender there was found facedown in a sewage treatment pond with a diplomat's son. Both had been shot in the back of their heads. Local police accustomed to chasing down moonshiners had a field day interrogating students including myself. Seems I had forcibly ousted the drunken diplomat's son from my pad just days before his demise. Send lawyers, guns and money. Dad, get me out of this.
And I had the strangest roommates. We occupied a one-room efficiency behind the only local bistro. Rob had a girlfriend he called Lay It Down Sally. He'd share her with his buddies while Roger and I tried to sleep. I've never heard somebody so loud and demonstrative.
Roger's idea of an ideal pickup line was the ever-popular, "So, do you still have that picture of my dick and balls on your nightstand?" This went over about as well as his habit of punching people in the face for no apparent reason at parties.
Okay, so the joker was me. But I didn't kill anybody so far as I can recall.
I got to work on Tuesday and checked my messages. There was a voice mail message from a dipshit buddy of mine. Not a close friend mind you, but one of those dingleberries that no one can remember how he got attached to the group, the guy who is everybody's least favorite but who is underneath it all OK and sometimes fun to hang out with when he isn't having an episode.
The message was a prank in which he pretended to be a doctor at the local nut hatch claiming that the crazy witch i went out with on the worst date ever (detailed in these pages) had committed herself under my name and said I was her husband. he sucks at this stuff and I knew it was him right away, yet the message went on for a couple minutes as though I would be fooled.
So I thought, fuck him, i will show him what a real prank is. I had our cops reporter call his house and leave a message saying his neighbor complained he committed a hit and run on his car. They had a partial plate and a description of his car and if he would come down to the police station and let a traffic officer look at his car they could avoid getting a warrant for his arrest.
We made up a cop name, Officer Clifftim, kept it short and sweet and then let the dice fall where they may. My buddy is a super fucking paranoid because he is crazy and because he has done a lot of shit to get himself in trouble. I knew he would freak if he got the message because it wasn't my voice and even if he suspected it was me, he wouldn't stop freaking until I confirmed it wasn't me and I just wasn't going to answer the phone.
Am I a sadistic fuck? Yes. Does that make what happened next even funnier? You be the judge.
Well it turns out that when I looked up my buddy's name in the phone book (I only have his cell phone number) that I got the number wrong. It was the same name, but a totally different guy. This guy has had problems over the years because, you guessed it, people confuse him for my buddy all the time. He gets hangups, the cops bug him, ex-girlfriends, you name it. Now me and my prank.
We made the call in the morning and by 4 pm, the shit had hit the fan. This guy apparently got the message and thought his wife hit a car and didn't say anything about it. Then he went down to the cop shop to figure out what the hell was going on with one of the desk sergeants who couldn't figure out what was going on either. Finally he contacts the paper because our number was on his caller ID and while our name wouldn't have been, all he had to do was call the number to find out this one of many numbers at my paper.
So the human resources manager gets on the case, then my managing editor THEN the general manager (who once made one of the most awesome prank calls I've ever witnessed). He overheard us making the call and the jig was up.
This guy kept him on the phone for like an hour bitching about the heartache and inconvenience we caused him. Long story short, he asked for a free subscription which they would have given to him if he had just said, aw no big deal, just gimme a freebie and we'll call it even.
I had to write a written apology and my cohort still has to call the cop and apologize but since he is the cops reporter and knows all the cops, this will probably just get a few laughs especially since we have already confirmed that we aren't guilty of impersonating a police officer or any other crimes.
meanwhile, my GM and ME have been laughing their asses off. The joke the GM once pulled was on the cops reporter. one day, a jeep was stolen with a fuckin' BABY in the back seat. We had an amber alert and everything. it was a tense morning. The cops reporter got one of the company cell phones to keep in touch. He got a phone call and a voice on the other line said "I've got the kid." The reporter freaked out while the GM laughed. I personally consider that a much more evil joke since we didn't know if the kid was alive or dead at the time.
Maybe you've tried to post a comment only to be sassed by this snide error message. You try again, which creates an annoying double-comment. Come back an hour later and it's been corrected. I haven't a clue whether our esteemed host devised some sort of code to detect these screwups, but I do know that he emails me on occasion. The last one dealt with a double-posting issue that stemmed from the same kind of mishap. MG also mentioned a technical issue I won't get into here. Suffice it to say that I am now typing this directly into MT; working without a net, so to speak.
In those emails, MG offered me encouragement as well as helpful tips on posting content and frequency. He has urged me to be more giving of myself, to share more of my life experience. Mostly for fear of boring readers to tears, I haven't heeded that particular advice very often. That is going to change.
When I first started posting on BS, it seemed like a lark. My online alter-ego would throw some slapdash nonsense up here and await comments that predictably never materialized. Sure I'd be dissapointed at the lukewarm reaction, but it wasn't any big deal. Then I became more and more comfortable with the whole online thing. As it became more and more real in my eyes, my workaday life started to pale in comparison. My eyes would glaze over as I struggled to fake interest in the mundane work-related minutia my coworkers hash over endlessly. I'd resist the temptation to sneak a peek @ the site from my desk.
Well, here goes nothing: My name isn't Anna. I don't wear any silly burqa. I sllepwalk through my pitiful excuse for a life guided by two principles: 1) A loathing of conflict. 2) Discomfort with talking about myself.
The latter trait has led me to hang onto the same humdrum if lucrative job for twenty years. I could hardly imagine the prospect of a job interview. Were I to get "right-sized," I'd have to become a full-time chinchilla rancher. The same goes for the dating scene. I've been happily married for fifteen years and counting. Before that I always maintained monogomous relationships. God forbid I'd ever get dumped, because I wouldn't know where to begin. (Love you, Nan...)
One of the biggest problems we face has to do with my son and his school's stubborn refusal to deal with his mild learning disability. He is bright, earning A's and B's consistently. Yet he struggles mightily to pick up on cues that come easily to others. The goddamn school proposed lumping him in with the short bus crowd, which is out of the question. Nonetheless, I have avoided further confrontation. Hence he remains in a perpetual state of limbo.
I do enjoy healthy competition though. I play fullback on a ridiculously competitive soccer team. One of my overweight teammates played so hard he died of a heart attack on the sideline. He scored two goals that day. Both were things of beauty. I miss him greatly.
I am also pretty good @ chess. If anyone would care to play a match, why, bring it on.
My nipples are ultra-sensitive to touch. One of my balls is considerably larger than the other. So now you know.
by mg at 07:33 AM on March 07, 2003
The recent rash (and I do mean rash) of reality programming has finally reached the critical mass required to move from being a genuine phenomenon to now become a societal faux pa the equivalent of whipping out a “Waaaaasup,” or “Where’s the beef?” in every day conversation.
While I can’t quite tell if this recent post on craigslist is for real, it doesn’t much matter since the quality of “in production” shows will surely make the dreck forced upon us by Married by America look like the Canterbury Tales. In order to cash in on the last days glory days of the Holy Reality TV Empire, I decided to devise a couple of my own show premises. I’m shopping them around to the networks as we speak and maybe next fall, as Bunim-Murray fiddle and the networks burn, you might be watching:
Joe Gonorrhea - Women are tempted into having sex with a millionaire underwear model, only to find out three months later that, while he is really a millionaire, he’s got a nasty case of the clap. No money will be awarded to the winner, but they will be in for a lifetime of painful pussie sores.
Who wants to marry a Mullah? - Women compete to be the 11th wife of Mullah Mohammad Omar, the former leader of the Taliban. The winner will be immediately to death stoned for appearing in public without a head covering, as will all the losing contestants, the women in the studio audience, and several viewers at home.
Queer Factor - Each week straight men compete for $50,000 by dating a homosexual man. Each round contestants must decide whether to reach the next “base.” But these aren’t straight bases, they are gay bases, which begin with some glory hole action, progress to anal beads, salad tossing. The final round each week will involve the winning contestant getting bukkaked by the Village People.
The Master Race - Representatives from every racial group compete head to head in challenges of strength, intelligence, and determination to find out which really is the “Master Race.” The losers each week are turned into collectible lampshades.
I’m a White Person, Get Me Out of Here - Blacks, Asians and Hispanics move into a suburban Connecticut neighborhood and all the white citizens must decide the exact right time to move away without looking like racists, but before the property values drop too much.
American Idle - Watch United States Marines sit around their bases in Saudi Arabia and Turkey, doing nothing and waiting for the U.N. to pass another resolution. This show will most likely be replaced after only a few weeks by Gulf War II.
Foster Failures - Orphans between the ages of 9 and 15, the group least likely to be adopted, are placed in "undesirable" foster homes. The inaugural season features families a family of nudists, some Mormons, and Paula Poundstone.
Temptation Mountain - Five unmarried couples are brought to an Appalachian resort to test and explore the strength of their relationships by being enticed by all their single relatives. Will the contestants stay with their significant others/sibling, or choose that two-toothed first cousin in the sexy overalls?
The Veal World - The true story of seven strangers, picked to live in a house to find out what happens when people stop being polite and start having sex with a baby cow.
Damn, I’m nervous. I just found out that I have a blind date, this Saturday, and it’s freaking me out a little. One of my friend’s significant other has taken it upon herself to find a “good woman” for me. That, in itself, scares the hell out of me. She’s a bit too prim and proper for my taste. I like women with a bit of a wild streak and off sense of humor. I’m more than a little worried that she’s going to hook me up with someone just like her. Then I’ll have to put on my happy face and suffer through it. That has to be one of the most uncomfortable situations you’ll have to live through. Time is relative. It’ll feel like the night lasted the equivalent of ten years in a Tijuana prison. I guess I should try to be positive.
I have a notoriously bad track record with blind dates though. People always try to match me with what they like or think I should be with and not so much what I’m looking for. I, generally, get matched with the shy, somewhat subservient, super sweet, sort of air headed, can’t hold a conversation if it doesn’t involve the latest reality show, type of girl.
Who told my friends that this is what I am looking for? Are they joking? I’m not a shallow person, and they know this, so why would I choose to be with one? I, also, need to be challenged both intellectually and emotionally. If I can run over someone, not that I would do it for kicks anymore, I will lose all respect for them. Stand up for yourself and you have my respect. I’d also like to be able to have a conversation. I’ll settle for current events.
I, like most men, need a kick in the ass sometimes for one reason or another. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want some screaming banshee that will jump my ass over nothing. I just want someone intelligent, witty, independent who isn’t going to take any shit or try to identify herself through me. What a task. Northern VA, as Anna can probably attest to, is a strange place to meet women. Most that you meet will have some questions for you. What do you do, what do you make, and what do you drive? What do you do? Ok. That I can see. What I make and drive should never come up in the initial conversation, in my opinion. Should I bring a bank statement and an Equifax report also?
I understand that women need stability. Hell, I need it too. I just don’t think these things, mentioned above, should be the defining factors you judge someone on. I know some very good people that are down and out. They are working on their situation but haven’t caught a break yet. Are you compassionate, caring, loyal, honest, not an asshole, not a serial killer? Those are a few things that I would deem important. I’m sure that there are a lot of women here who aren’t this way. I just haven’t one yet.
I’m going to go for the sake of curiosity. I swear though, if she asks what I make in the first twenty minutes I’m out like trash on a Thursday.
Back in HS there was a girl we'll call Anita Dick. Since she transferred from Catholic school freshman year, no one had laid eyes on her. Guys made up for lost time by ogling her 24-7. They also spoke aloud of how much they'd like to jump her bones. If rumors were true, many did. Glory holes see less action.
Anita was far from classically beautiful. She was stubby, standing 5'3" in stiletto heels. Her skin was pale as alabaster. Yet she inspired an outpouring of lust. It could have been the way she'd swing one crossed leg in class, an unnerving habit that drove rival girls to fits of jealousy. Or perhaps it was her walk, which was more of a burlesque routine than a means of locomotion. Or else the way her bra strap was forever creeping down her shoulder. Whatever the reason, guys obsessed over Anita and gals despised her. Many tried to emulate her strut nonetheless, to ruinous results.
I've always been intrigued by the illusory nature of sensuality, because it's something you either possess or you don't. When someone is blessed with angelic or finely sculpted looks, it's easy to see why they attract droves of suitors. Ah, but what to make of the Anitas of this world? How come guys get all sweaty and tongue-tied in their presence?
Sensuality shouldn't be confused with beauty. Back in the 50s, Jayne Mansfield was pretty by any standard and she boasted an ample rack. Yet she was overshadowed by Marilyn Monroe, who turned heads faster than Linda Blair's in The Exorcist. Bear in mind that Monroe weighed in @ a hefty 151 lbs at death. Dude, that's Anna Nicole Smith territory!
Humphrey Bogart, Paul Newman, James Dean, Frank Sinatra and Marlon Brando were hardly pretty boys in their primes. Yet women would miss no chance to be bent over car hoods by any of them, preferably one after another. Same goes for such flawed specimens as Jean Harlow, Rita Hayworth, Monroe and Raquel Welch. Who did JFK choose to bone, Monroe or his angelic wife Jackie O?
It's not strictly a matter of animal magetism. Consider Anna Kournikova, whom Maxim readers crowned the hottest chick alive. Surely she wouldn't have qualified were it not for her lackluster tennis career. A whiff of ethnicity helps too. Most folks prefer a NY hussy strutting about on her FMPs to a California girl wandering barefoot across the Santa Monica Pier. Ditto for accents. People fall hard for southern drawls or Brit-speak.
Although it's likely Kournikova falls into the ditzy blonde category, that alone can't explain it. You don't have to be a moron to exude sensuality. In fact, Monroe was rumored to be well-read and quite articulate. She also abhorred blowing studio execs to garner roles.
I think a shaved head on guys conveys a devilish streak ladies find irresistible. Not so with comb-overs. Tattoos serve the same purpose on chicks, whereas track marks do not. Nothing says "I intend to steal your watch once you fall asleep" like track marks. Similarly, gaunt, vacant-eyed fashion models exude all the seductivenenss of a lukewarm pus bath. I daresay sex with then is less gratifying than post-mortem lovin'. Indeed, if the corpse is freshly deceased and still twitching, it might prove better. Plus all models smoke and that's disgusting.
I am curious about this whole sexiness-despite-glaring-flaws phenomena. What qualities stiffen rods, moisten laps and send hearts aflutter? Who among today's cookie-cutter star pool embodies these X-factor traits? Surely not haughty Gwyneth Paltrow or cutie-pie Meg Ryan. That is, unless she's faking an orgasm or thrusting her dainty, manicured fingers down Russell Crowe's trousers. Same goes for clean-cut Tom Cruise in Minority Report.
Well, what say you?
by mg at 04:35 PM on March 05, 2003
This is one of those, “I’ve got nothing to say” kind of posts.
Because, well, I’ve got nothing to say. The past couple weeks have been absolutely uneventful. My daily activities fall into three, and only three, distinct categories; class, work, and home.
No fun, no adventure, no excitement.
There really hasn’t been much to talk about on my end. Which is, I suppose, a good thing. The last couple years have been filled with constant emotional turmoil. There were layoffs, break ups, death and devastation.
I’ve now gone a solid two months without a major milestone to report. And while that’s a good thing for me, it is apparently a bad thing for you, since each and every one of you seems to revel in my failure more than the last. And I can’t blame you, I’d revel in your failures too, if you had a website. <ed note>Word suggested “raise the roof” as a synonym for “revel.” When did Microsoft get so black? It’s brining down the property values. </ed note>
Sure, I could talk about class, how I’m shooting for a 4.0 GPA (at least for this first semester), and its still looking pretty good that I can do it. I could talk about work, how I’d like to find more of it. Or about home and how I spend countless hours lying on my couch, staring blankly at whatever tripe is showing on the television that night.
Seriously, my life bores me to tears. I don’t want to inflict that nightmarish monotony of my existence on you. Besides, relaying the tedious details of my life here would put all but the most insomnimaniacal of you to sleep, and since most of the people who visit the site do so at work, I’d hate to think I had anything to do with you getting reamed after your boss finds you passed out and slouched over your keyboard (again).
So, uhm, how are y’all doing?
I figured a little peek in to the life that used to be mine would be a good way to begin this. That way everyone can see the possible reasons for me being the freak I am. I don't try. I just am. This little episode took place when I was still in high school. I fancied myself a Dead Head and, seeing as how I'd been to more shows than all of my friends, that fact established me as the resident expert. This had its perks, like knowing where all of the good drugs were. There were cons also. Getting laughed at and publicly ridiculed being one. The small redneck town I grew up in (7,000 strong) didn't have a soft spot for anyone not driving a pick up truck, hauling a coon dog, rifle (shotgun optional) hanging in the back window blaring David Allen Coe's x-rated masterpiece. I didn't fit in this demographic, needless to say.
The story I want to tell you is the time I decided to become a janitor. Well, decided makes it seem like I had a choice. I didn't.
My friends and I scored some white blotter one Friday night. Same old, same old. We'd done this many times. We didn't hunt game so our options were limited on weekends. We all decided to go up to the parkway, find a camping spot, build a fire and watch it like idiots. We didn't care that there were bears and other carnivorous beasts around. We'd be tripping and therefore invisible. I took it upon myself to dole out the paper because one friend with us was rather shady. You know the kind. One for you five for him. I gave them out. Since my buddy Steve and I did the leg work and paid for the majority we ended up with ten hits between us. We took our usual three hits apiece and waited. 20 minutes, 30 minutes, 45 minutes.......nothing. Sir Super Shady aka Shawn was getting a bit anxious. "Damn! You guys got taken. This is just paper!" says he. "Nah man," I said "I used the same guy we always use. Maybe it's just weak and we need to take more?"
I would come to regret those words.
All of us took the rest of what we had. Ten minutes later I heard a sound like a freight train coming through the woods. Seeing as how there were no tracks, on top of this mountain, I began to get concerned. I looked over to Steve and his eyes were now totally black. I thought this was strange due to him having green eyes. Then he began to melt which was not registering in my addled brain.
Let me just say here that I had never had intense visuals on acid before so this was all new to me. The fire was beginning to look very sinister to me, and I was sure it was plotting to take all of us to hell. Suddenly, a change of scenery seemed like a good idea. We doused the fire, an amazingly difficult thing due to our state of mind, and left. I was almost to the car when I decided I'd better go back and make sure we had done a thorough job. I got back to the fire and sure enough, it was out. The smoke curling up from it was having a very hypnotic effect though. I was mesmerized. I no longer had any concept of time. My friends showed up a minute later. Seems I had been gone for thirty minutes. Go figure. They all thought I'd been eaten by something or had wandered away like our other friend at a Dead show, though that is another story. We finally all piled back in Shawn's 1979 Granada which was yellow with primered spots. We had christened it the "bruised banana" months ago but now that seemed like the funniest thing any of us had ever heard. We cackled for a while and then Shawn started back down the mountain.
Acid + car = lunacy
I found this equation to be an absolute as we started down the mountain. Half way down Shawn looks over at me and says "Damn man. I'm glad I'm not driving". I said "But Shawn. You are!" He found this to be extremely disturbing and immediately pulled over. Being the protector of friends I am, I offered to drive. In my estimation, I was the only one who could get us off that mountain safe. Amazingly enough I did. We putzed around Steve's house, for a while, watching Pink Floyd's "Live at Pompeii", which did much for our general state of mind, and laughing incessantly.
Around five am I decided to head for home. I had to be alone for a while and home sounded good. I snuck in and barricaded myself in my room. I listened to music, played guitar, and stared in a mirror (bad idea) for what seemed like an hour. When I finally looked at the clock it was 8:30 Saturday night. How could this be? Why hadn't my parents even looked for me by now?
I decided to brave the house to see what was going on. Everything was quiet as a tomb. I looked around the kitchen and found the answer to my question. A note from the rents. "Robbie, left for the beach. No parties and clean your room." Normally that would've meant a party but there was only one problem. I was still tripping balls. I did the math. 8:30 last night to 8:30 tonight = Damn! 24 hours! I had never tripped for more than 10 hours at a crack and now I had lost an entire day? How could this be? That's when the evil Mr. Doubt crept in to my brain. "You're never coming down." he says. I'm not listening. I've heard about those guys but that couldn't happen to me right? Right!? Oh shit! Maybe it could. Maybe it’s happening right now! This really kicked my brain in to high gear. “What am I going to do?” I wondered. I'll never be normal again. Ok think, damn you, think. God, now I can never go to college, never be an engineer. Who's going to marry someone who's tripping for the rest of their lives? Certainly not my current girlfriend. Oh man, I've ruined everything. I know. I'll go on tour with the Dead. They'll accept me. They’ll have to die sometime though. What then? I know. I'll be a janitor. No one ever screws too hard with the janitor. I can push a broom, clean toilets, and get up kiddie puke with that foul orange mystery dust while tripping. If things get too intense I can hide out in the boiler room until it calms down. I now had a purpose. All I had to do was follow through and be cool. This could actually work. I went back to my room and "came to" Sunday afternoon. I looked around and everything seemed pretty normal. A few trails here and there but.........I'd stopped tripping!!!!! Thank you God for not letting me be a vegetable for the rest of my life. I'll never trip again I promise. I didn't touch anything else for years.
Later, I found out why that acid was so strong. It was window pane. Four hits rolled in to every one. That means Steve and I took the equivalent of twenty hits. The snapper-head that sold it to us swore he told us but he was tripping on it, during the purchase, so that seems suspect. That's not something I would've forgotten. This just goes to show. It’s all fun and games until someone gives you window pane.
Hey everyone. MG, the master of my virtual universe, just got me all set up to post.
All I can hope is that everybody gets as big a laugh at my posts as I do from the other authors.
More likely, I'll make you all feel better about yourselves reading about my pathetic excuse for a life.
I'll probably rant, Lockheed?, rave, where's Douche?, and froth at the mouth like someone possessed, at times, but it'll be genuine.
I just wanted to say hi and will have something up for you guys to laugh at or ridicule very soon.
by mg at 03:18 PM on March 03, 2003
New design is up today, nearly one year exactly from when I’d put up the former design. All in all, I think this makes the 7th major design revision (with countless X.X releases). I have to say I like this one best of all, or maybe that’s just because it’s still all shiny and new.
At any rate, I’m in the process of finishing it all up, and propagating it out to all the different templates. I was going to do it all at once, but thought I’d throw it up here to get a little early feedback.
So, what do you all think?
Perusing the “news” yesterday, a few items caught my eye. But before I discuss them, let me preface my remarks by pointing out that which is patently obvious to anyone who’s read my drivel here: I am mostly apolitical, apathetic and self-centered as hell. Indeed, I don’t care deeply about much of anything except the safety and well-being of my loved ones and an adequate wine supply.
Item #1: (scroll to End Notes): Okay, let’s see. This guy flies off the handle in a road rage incident, hurls another motorist’s puppy into oncoming traffic and she’s guilty of inflicting mental anguish on him? You have got to be kidding me. You’ll note that this joker plans to proceed pro se. Clearly no lawyer would stoop that low, which speaks volumes about the frivolity of his complaint.
Item #2: We can all agree that the Holocaust was a tragedy. It ranks right up there with Sept 11 and Allied firebombing of Dresden in the annals of senseless horrors. But why would the Jewish advocacy group opt to dignify PETA’s inane attempt to equate eating T-bone steaks with the wholesale massacre of millions of Jews, Gypsies and gays? Wouldn’t it make more sense to simply ignore those strident a-holes as 99% of the populace does as a matter of course? Don’t they understand that these so-called “campaigns” on behalf of this cause or that amount to no more than background noise; a petty distraction like commercials for rival heartburn remedies to someone who doesn’t suffer from it? Or that no one ever undergoes a change-of- heart about anything substantive? As for PETA, maybe they should focus attention on sadists who hurl dogs around or get busy with fillies (Speaking of hanky-panky among animals, I caught Mr. Chilla sucking his own dick as Ms. Chilla II looked on impassively. Which begs the question: If you could perform fellatio or cunnilingus on yourself, would you? And if so, would that make you bisexual?)
Item #3: Oh, splendid. The High Court now says racketeering statutues don't apply to abortion protesters. Hence, abortion battlegrounds that had remained relatively placid for the last couple years due to a combination of anti-abortionists fearing RICO prosecution and in-home embryo disposal via RU-486 will now become fraught with turmoil anew. Mostly female abortion enthusiasts will once again square off with their mostly male adversaries. Doctors will be gunned down as “pro-lifers” crow with delight. Abortion-seekers will be caught in the crossfire. Yet no viewpoints will ever change.
I will mount my soapbox briefly to proffer an opinion on how these seemingly disparate developments interrelate. Each is inherently petty, frivolous and will do nothing to protect our families from fanatical Arab terrorists in our midst. Meanwhile it seems as if authorities uncover a new plot to massacre us almost daily. And with legions of those intolerant, preachy, self-righteous, sexist, misanthropic botched abortions bound and determined to dismember innocent non-combatants (in defiance of their own purported creed, no less) sashaying across our porous borders en masse, wouldn’t you think it’s time to bury all other hatchets forever? Or did nothing change Sept 11? Would it take an outbreak of smallpox or botulism to convince these single-minded zealots that there’s a genuine peril afoot, one which will require unwavering unity in our collective abhorrence of our sworn enemies forevermore? Did I somehow miss the terrorists’ apology that somehow makes it all better here in this post-Clinton age of instant atonement? (News Flash: Global cops just nabbed a top enemy operative known in serial murder circles as “The Brain.” The blood of 2,800 innocents is caked all over his hands, by his own admission. Hey, it’s a start.)
The minute but vocal minority of Muslims committed to savagery will stop at nothing in their quest to forcibly convert the world to their lifestyle. Perhaps understandably, others are rather perturbed by this. Hell, even Jimmy Carter himself couldn’t find a patch o’ common ground between us and them. So we’ll have to agree to disagree, as will those surly abortion combatants in due time.
That’ll be the day.
by mg at 07:58 AM on March 01, 2003
How do you ensure your woman won't cheat while you're attending 12 month military service? (No I DON'T want to go, its obligatory in my country)
Well, you obviously don't live in the United States where we’re all free to sit on our lazy ass at home if we damn well feel like it. Whatever country you’re from is forcing your ass into a situation where you'll probably get your shit blown all the hell up, but America is the warmonger? Riiiight.
Anyway, I hate to be the bearer of bad news Necro, but there is absolutely no way to stop your chick from cheating on you while you're away. Over the next 12 months, when the closest thing to sex you'll have is some private sticking his bayonet in your fox hole, or some transsexual prostitute in the red light district of whatever disaster of a country you get stationed in, your woman will be getting the hole in her heart for you plugged up by as many male genitalia as she can fit her mouth around.
Women want and need sex like the members of Phish need bicycles (you know, because they're all hippieish and stuff. So they ride bikes instead cars. Because they hate fossil fuels. Because they're bad for the environment. Because... oh, fuck it, never mind.). I know this might be hard for most men to comprehend, but women have sexual needs too. Sure, you may hear "no" more than Jeremy Burnitz hears "Strike Three, Your Out," but that isn't because women don't want sex, it's just because they don't want sex with you.
And, if you've never managed to pleasure her, she will see this as a guilt free opportunity to run around town, looking for a man (or, if you’ll allow me to fantasize for a minute, a woman) who knows how to please her. More than likely, she'll find someone who knows how to do her right, and when you get back from whatever hot zone you've been stationed, you'll be out in the cold. And, don’t think that because you make her moan like a banshee in bed, your safe, you are wrong. You've really fucked yourself then. Do you think someone who’s been used to getting your high hard one regularly be able to go a year without getting it again?
“What about love?” you ask. That's a really good question. Unfortunately, that absence makes the heart grow fonder stuff is absolute bullocks. She may love you, and when she sees you off for your 12-month stint, it may be the most tearful goodbye since the FBI busted down Eilian Gonzalez's closet door, but your woman will no doubt be spreading her legs before she gets out of the airport parking lot. Sex beats out love every time, otherwise Love Potion #9 would be the biggest selling pharmaceutical, instead of Viagra.
Now, here is my advice to you: Accept the fact she will fuck around on you like Meg Ryan fucking around on Dennis Quaid during the shooting of Proof of Life. If you accept that, do a little messing around yourself, when you come back from your year away neither one of you ever has to mention the awful, filthy things you've both done in your time apart.
The only other option is to break up with her before you leave. Believe it or not, she is more likely to stay faithful to you if there isn't that extra thrill to sex added by doing it behind someone's back. Sure, she'll still be fucking around, but instead of getting gang banged by the entire Algerian National soccer team every Saturday night, it'll just be a couple guys in the bathroom at the local frat bar.
This works because even if the first time you see her after your 12 months away, there is still some other dude's spunk dribbling from her snatch, she doesn't have to feel guilty, and you don't have to feel jealous. You two can get back together and live happily ever after.