Breathe With Me

by adam at 07:28 PM on July 31, 2004

Part of the danger of having access to a forum like this is the ease with which foul invective can come streaming out of my fingertips to reach an unknown and largely anonymous audience. It's never a good idea to do anything right away when you've suffered a hurt, but putting Prodigy's "Smack My Bitch Up" on one's stereo and going right to post is a particularly bad idea.

Though BW just told me not to be so down, I'm feeling particularly unloved and hopeless, and so I did the petty thing and lashed out at J, the immediate cause of my pain. That made me feel a lot better for a few minutes, but now I just feel small and sour (think unripe grape here). In J I saw the reflection of SL, someone who caused me incredible amounts of pain many years ago. I wasn't the only one to note the similarities - the old friends who met J, though they liked her, all accused me of the same thing - chasing SL (apologies to Kevin Smith). I was defenseless back then, and so heartbroken that I couldn't bear to reach out and let SL know exactly how much I hated her. So I unloaded the bile which I'd been saving up for so many years on J, even though she did little to earn it.

So I did something which I am loathe to do - I deleted my own post. That kind of "scream into the pillow" moment should be left in the pillow, not held high for the world to see. I guess I'm not a very big person after all, but I'm big enough to apologize in public for insult given in public.

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I coulda been a contender, I coulda been somebody

by anna at 08:47 AM on July 31, 2004

He called me a liar and a rapist. I'm not a liar. -Mike Tyson, responding to a reporter's column about him

Last night Tyson got folded by a British nobody in the 4th round. The Brit landed sixteen straight shots and put a final coda on Tyson's sad yet storied saga. Having squandered $400 million on cheap talk and wine, he now finds himself untold millions in debt to hundreds of creditors, none of whom will ever see a dime. Lacking any other skills and with his name forever sullied, Iron Mike is destined to live out his life in a miserable, destitute state.

Let's not dwell too much on the (trumped-up???) rape charge that sent him to prison in the prime of his career. Let's not even bring up him gnawing off Evander Holyfield's earlobe or breaking some other guy's arm in the ring. Ditto for his fake suicide driving his Bentley into a tree, attacking an elderly gent after a fender bender or throwing a TV out the window after prison guards refused him his Zoloft dosage.

Forget the way that every time he's faced a semi-worthy opponent in recent memory he's been bitch-slapped silly. Forget his oddly timid, high-pitched voice and that time he was caught on tape promising to make some other man his girlfriend. Same goes for that time he went off on a reporter, unleashing a stream of obscenities that seemed funny at the time but now seems ironic and pitiful. "I'll fuck you till you love me," he told the guy.

Mike Tyson used to be my hero. Despite the fact I'm no boxing fan, I like many other was simply captivated by this guy. He came out of nowhere to rise to the pinnacle of his chosen vocation. But the thing for me was how he did it. He'd show up at a fight with little or no fanfare or entourage (this was in his early days.) No fancy embroidered robe, no hotty on either arm, not even socks. He'd just have unadorned gym trunks and tennis shoes on.

With an icy glare, he'd jump up and down in his corner as the endless announcements droned on. He seemed on edge, anxious to get on with the business at hand; as if he had a pressing engagement afterwards. He paid no mind to the leggy, barely clad girls who tote those signs around perched upon suicide heels. Nor did he care what the ref had to say. His strategy was pure offense, no defense. (I've patterned my chess style after that. Unfortunately at 14, Ian is starting to figure it out.)

To see his overmatched opponents prior to the 1-3 rounds of intense punishment they were about to absorb was to behold primal, unmitigated horror. It's great to garner a decent payday, I suppose, but it does no good if you're no longer alive to collect it. And given the quickness, singular sense of purpose and utter ferocity of Tyson in his prime, sudden death always seemed a very real possibility. Morbidly curious, millions tuned in for pay-per-view, forking over exorbidant fees for what usually amounted to no more than a few minutes of one-sided brutality. You got the feeling that unlike Boom-Boom Mancini, it wouldn't bother him if he beat some guy to death.

Then he got knocked out by a flabby tomato can in Japan. Thus began a horrifying descent into madness, misery and increasingly bizarre antics designed to avert attention from the fact that A) He sucks as a boxer. B) He is dumb as a rock. and C) He's broke.

I don't think there is a sadder saga than his in recent American history. Here's to you, Iron Mike. Thanks for nothing.

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Leaving on a jet plane... err, in a Civic...

by snaggle at 05:26 PM on July 29, 2004

Thereís a bible verse that runs something like ĒBut when childhood ended it was time to put away childish things.Ē Okay, I donít know exactly what it is or what it refers to, but itís been running through my head lately due to my imminent departure from my home since summer 1998.

cont'd »

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If you want to talk fishing, well now I guess that'd be okay

by anna at 06:42 PM on July 28, 2004

When I travel the country these days I'm struck by the crushing sameness of the towns. There's always the exact same strip mall on the same main drag with the same stores and restaurants: McDonald's, Wendy's, WalMart, CVS, Lowe's, Home Depot etc. Now that banks have gone national those are all the same too. Increasingly we live in a generic world.

I think the measure of a quality resort is the degree to which they've resisted the perfidious encroachment of bland corporate chains. I had heard that the Outer Banks wasn't overly commercialized, but that isn't what I saw. They had Lowe's, Food Lion, even a Next Day Blinds for those who simply must have blinds ASAP. Blinds!! I saw a sad, local mom n, pop grocery stored being shuttered. When my wife wanted to get me a new Kodak dig-cam and this handy-dandy printer she shuttled between WalMart and K-Mart. She got ripped off cuz neither sold the stuff as a set. One day I will try to figure out how it works.

It's not just the stores either. Every burg has its own zany Morning Zoo on the radio. Every so often the prerecorded traffic message comes on, featuring someone with a silly name like Vera Bruptly. She recites the rubbernecking delays in the exact same bottlenecks as the day before. The DJs and traffic reporters all sound the same, with nary a trace of regional accent like they're all from LA or something.

I don't know why this bothers me so. I mean, let's face it, the familiar is also convenient and it is a known quantity. You know what you're getting at Wendy's: inexplicably square, greasy burgers with way too much fixings and cheese that isn't fully melted.

But it does. And that's why it was so uplifting to hear an extended edition of Fishing Today as we made the trek north from the beach. Men's men from bait and tackle shops would come on and talk about fishing. They'd discuss lures, bait and the best fishing spots and techniques without a trace of irony or self-consciousness. More amazing still, they sounded like people who were actually from that area. Their patter, unfortunately, was punctuated by the generic song list in use on every station in the nation. Nothing like a discussion about squid vs. chicken necks as bait followed by the whiny stylings of millionaire Alanis Morisette. Bah!

The one place I've been to that seems to have retained its unique regional flair is NYC. There you still have mom n' pop operations and distinct ethnic neighborhoods. They pour like a pound of sugar in your coffee without you even having to ask. When you protest, they look at you like you're crazy. You wave for pedestrians to cross and they eye you with suspicion, as if it's some kind of trick.

Yet everyone seems to be in a mad rush to flee out to Long Eye Land, with its strip malls a-growing and manicured lawns boring everyone to tears. Go figure.

Well I gotta get on up to Lowe's. There's a fake Tiffany lamp I've been eying that's just gone on sale.

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why can't we be friends

by ab at 09:10 PM on July 27, 2004

I need to pay more attention. Here I sit at my husband and my collective computer. A computer thatís foreign to me. We have no relationship, this computer and me. Thereís no love. And Nothing fricking (yes, I just said ďfrickingĒ) works. Or at least nothing is working for me.

No music. No internet, just Word. And I know later that heíll probably have to post this for me. Not that he doesnít show me how. In fact, just last night I got a slow and very patient tutorial. Itís just that I wasnít really paying attention. And learning all those steps is so boring. Plus, I know heíll just post it for me if I canít figure it out. And thatís why Iím sitting here all annoyed and touchy as a boil.

cont'd »

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These are just words and words are okay

by anna at 07:41 AM on July 27, 2004

Chris Rock used to have a wickedly funny routine wherein he riffed on the silly notion that Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls were assassinated. "Those niggaz was shot," he'd exclaim.

I caught a little of Bill Clinton addressing the Democratic convention. I was reminded of what it's like to hear a masterfully delivered speech again. But I couldn't help but think that there were those in attendance who wouldn't mind too terribly if W got assassinated, or shot ,or whatever. And hey, it can happen. Just ask Abe Lincoln, William McKinley or JFK.

Then it occured to me that that would mean Dick Cheney would assume the position of Leader of the Free World. You internationalists think the so-called "international community" holds the US of A in utter disdain now? What if we were led by this arrogant, taciturn, Jabba the Hutt-looking recluse holding forth from his undisclosedd hideout as is his wont? Perish that thought. (Though the fat cats of Halbutrin who're cleaning up competition-free in the Iraqi rebuilding effort would like nothing better. In fact, they'd be the prime suspects.)

By contrast, the equally bland John Kerry has tapped a dynamic, good-looking trial lawyer with an endearing southern accent and charm galore as his running mate. So if Kerry got assassinated, shot, or whatever, we'd still be in good shape. God knows what John Edwards' policies are, but She also knows it would have to be a far cry better than Mr. Go Fuck Yourself.

Vladamir Putin: You really need to rethink this ongoing occupation of a sovereign nation. It's a disaster and everyone knows it.
Jabba the Hut: Go fuck yourself.

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Well, it's not the Rolling Stone....

by northstar at 07:37 AM on July 26, 2004

No jail for the Pennsylvania Pants Pooper

You know you've arrived when the editor of The Poop Report (yes, Virginia, there is an entire website devoted to all matters fecal. There's a joke or six in there, but in the name of good taste, I'll spare everyone.) emails you to ask for your help. Hmm, I wondered...what could I POSSIBLY have done to catch the attention of the often-imitated, never-duplicated Poop Report?

cont'd »

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I passed the test, but now what?

by anna at 03:40 PM on July 24, 2004

So yeah, I been away at the Outer Banks in North Carolina. Tobacco is the lifeblood of that state. It seems like everybody smokes. Signs in restaurants boast of a newly formed non-smoking area. You can smoke while pumping gas. And at least in the resort itself, one sees no people of color. It prompted me to muse aloud whether these southern yahoos restrict them to the Inner Banks. The utter whiteness of the place was downright eerie.

We stayed in a house owned by a friend's parents. The friend is mainly a friend of my wife's, as I have no friends. She warned me that there were certain issues, mostly stemming from a tragic car accident that killed our host's friend in these very same Outer Banks six years ago. For instance, there will be no driving at night which pretty much precluded eating out.

This house was located in a small enclave in Kill Devil Hills. As a matter of fact, it is located in the very same enclave as the one where one Melissa Marvin got totally toasted and ran a red light and killed four teenagers. Her trial was on Court TV. In an emotionally-tinged verdict the jury heaved the book at her. She'll get out when Hell freezes over.

So due to this confluence of factors we mostly drank Margaritas from a blender in this fine home. But I had a hankering to go out to dinner on our anniversary, which was 7/23/04. That day it rained, so we fished off the dock and sipped beers. The friend had a daughter the same age as my son and the budding/awkward thing with them is worthy of a whole nother post. But the whole time I was fishing/drinking I was acutely aware of all the above facts, in addition to the fact that the police we constantly pulling people over for no apparent reason on the only road out of that enclave. Consulting a chart, I calculated that I'd be okay with four beers in a 3 hour period. But I also took a big swill of a Margarita just before we left. Bad move?

No. As my wife and I departed for our anniversary dinner, we soon approached an all-too familiar checkpoint. Every driver in either direction was being stopped and asked to show ID etc. If the officer detected any odor of alcohol or pot, problems ensued. That's what happened with us. He asked if I'd had anything to drink and I told the truth. He administered the pre-lim breath test, with which I am very familiar from prior arrests.

He looked at it and seemed quite disappointed at the paltry .005 result. Not to be deterred from his vital citizen harrassment mission, he said there was a strong odor of alcohol emanating from our vehicle. Did I mention that my wife, knowing she wasn't driving, had downed several drinks while on VA-K? He asked to search our vehicle and we consented, glad to oblige and end our contact with his corn-fed ass. This inbred, cheap sunglasses-wearing yahoo then tore our spotless car to pieces, warned me that one more drink "prior to reaching your final destination, si-ir" could result in DI-AAARE CONSEQUENCES."

Yay! I had passed my first Breathalyzer test with flying colors, after failing several in my (much) younger n' wilder days (nowadays I don't drink n' drive, I just trip n' drive, there's no test for LSD-25.)

Oh, I felt so proud of my self-restraint and foresight. But then I started brooding about the trivial fact that my Constitutional rights had seemingly been stripped away from me in the name of those four teenage victims. Specifically my absolute protection from ANY cops doing search and seizure operations, which fecklessly examining the contents of my bloodstream and personal property most certainly are, in the absence of probably or for that matter any cause to believe that a crime had been committed. By my very presence in that benighted, trailer-park, saloon-infested area I was presumed guilty. I presumed that the constant parade of people on motorized scooters and mopeds to/from said trailer parks and bars were too.

What do you think? Should the cops be allowed to do this or not? Why?

comments (8)


lot's of leche

by ab at 03:04 PM on July 20, 2004

Theyíre huge. Iím talkiní really, really big. This is no joke. When they say ďknockersĒ theyíre right. They actually do knock around when unfettered. Jugs you say? Yes, I say. Jugs full of milk. Iím making milk. MILK for god-sakes. ďYes, youíre so clever, I could come in handy at the breakfast table. I actually have offered to soak MGís Americaís Choice Toasted Rice and to top off his coffee with my very own 2%. Itís milk. And it comes from my nips.

The pictures of a breastfeeding woman they show: Her resplendent in her rocking chair, sunlight bringing out the highlights in her perfect hair. Pink child suckling contentedly. They are symbiotic and working perfectly in concert together. You can practically hear the birds chirping from the window behind her. What could be more natural? What could be more self-explanatory?

cont'd »

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i won't let go, i won't let go even if you say so, oh no

by mg at 10:44 AM on July 20, 2004

Last night I actually had a dream about Bad Samaritan. I can safely say this is the first time I’ve ever had a dream about a website, because, technically, that first time was a dream about Bea Arthur herself, and not that collection of nude photographs I found of her online.

cont'd »

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I'd put on a sailor's suit and cap

by anna at 07:36 PM on July 15, 2004

You might say morality was lax when I was growing up. You'd go to a party and notice that you'd slept with everyone there. But it wasn't like today with the hooking up and all. You had to date first, by which I mean driving around aimlessly, swilling beers with a person. The other difference is that special favors were reserved for long-term relationships rather than the other way around.

There was one notable exception to this rule, whom I'll call Celeste. For four years this shy bookworm lurked on the periphery, observing our mating habits with the cool detachment of a sociologist. Her very virginal existence irked many of us. Lots of guys had tried to rectify the situation but all had failed. She might as well have been wearing a chastity belt.

cont'd »

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Itís only life after all

by ezy at 10:05 AM on July 14, 2004

Man, as completely amazing as my marriage to Amy is, itís freaking work.

cont'd »

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the canterbury tales will shoot up to the top of the best seller list

by mg at 09:11 AM on July 14, 2004

Even though “This time it counts,” the All-Star Game is tough to care about. And if it is tough for me to care about, it is damn impossible to get the wife to care enough, or believe I care enough, to let me watch it. In the short time we’ve been married, though, I have already discovered the trick to getting her to let me watch sports. And I didn’t even have to reinvent the wheel.

All I have to do is impart on her the kind of behind the scenes stories that sports journalists use to keep people who don’t care about sports interested enough to not flip the channel to see if they are doing weather yet on the other local news broadcast. Things like telling her that Brett Favre’s dad just died so if the Packers make it to the Super Bowl that must surely be a sign of an afterlife, and that Favre Sr. is using his afterlife to help his son cheat at football.

Or that Lance Armstrong only has one nut. You know, stuff like that.

cont'd »

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In Defense of Drunk Drivers

by anna at 07:48 PM on July 13, 2004

Okay MG, but this doesn't come natural to me. I'm just a dour guy.
According to this pie chart, 39% of accidents involved alcohol five years ago. By '02 it was down to 31%. But that still seems a suspectly high number. Especially when you consider all the strident anti-drunk driving rhetoric and stepped-up law enforcement.

As usual the common sense perspective is correct. To see why we need to deconstruct all the overblown, self-serving, alarmist stats propogated by MADD (Mean Angry Dried-up Dames.) First, they count all accidents, even minor fender benders. Plus when they list it as "alcohol related," that only means that one or more of the injured parties had traces of booze in their systems. These would include pedestrians and passengers. So if a drunk is staggering around a bus stop and gets pancaked by a sober driver who ran a red light, it's "alcohol related." Same goes for the designated driver who's driving a carload of drunks home from a party and wraps the car around a utility pole.

When the offending driver has been drinking, authorities presume that to be the sole cause. But of course all accidents are by definition multi-factorial. And in cases involving low BACs it is physiologically unlikely to have even been a contributing factor.

What about people tooling around on mind-bending quantities of legal prescription drugs? They're usually far more impaired than those on booze, pot or coke. Why then is there no witch hunt against them? For that matter, what about those wanton killers who drive while talking on cell phones, giving or receiving oral, strumming guitar or turning around to yell at their kids? Or worse, those guilty of DWO?

We also need to consider issues of dependance and tolerance. Who're the people driving around drunk these days? Drunks---that's who---people with years of experience doing it. Of necessity they've learned not to weave. To avoid being pulled over they keep their lights working, inspections up to date etc. They drink coffee to at least be an alert drunk. They've learned to close one eye when seeing double. A seasoned drunk driver is thus far less likely to cause an accident. That's why so many of us stay home on New Year's Eve, cowering in fear of being killed by amateur drunk drivers.

I bring all this up because my state has just enacted the most Draconian drunk driving laws in the world. A .008 (4 beers in 2 hours) will get your licence revoked for a year, first timer or not. Blow a .02 and you'll land in jail for 5 days, have your car seized and have to pay $500 to install a Breathalyzer ignition kit. Habitual offenders will be rounded up and shot en masse. They'll then be pushed into Serb-style mass graves. (BTW, isn't it time we stopped wasting valuable suburban real estate on individualized graves?)

But that's not the worst part. Drunk driving Gestapo storm troopers have set up random checkpoints on every corner. They will force all drivers to submit to time-consuming testing. Thanks to a Supreme Court ruling, they can now bypass your Constitutional presumption of innocence just for taking the wheel. By virtue of simply being on the road you're presumed guilty. No longer do universally corrupt police need probably cause to, in effect, perform a full body cavity search on all citizens at will.

It won't work any more than murderous efforts to persuade Afghan farmers to stop growing poppies or Columbians to stop farming coca. These are immutable issues that will never go away. But it appeases the Dried-up Dames for a while and that is all that matters in the end.

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jen x

bandwagon jumping

by jen x at 12:06 PM on July 13, 2004

I'm hoping to get some input on a situation, and I can't post about it openly on my site; at least, I'm too chicken to do it. Ezy commented on it over there, but I figure it's about time to explain this a bit better.

As always, Linz is a trend-setter. :)

cont'd »

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but if the party's over, if the fun has to end, could you do this for me my friend

by mg at 10:04 AM on July 13, 2004

What in the hell has happened around here? Everyone, self included, seems so damn serious, and so frickin’ humorless. We should all be happy. It seems as if everyone is in such a bad mood and is ready to snap faster than the girl picked by producers of a reality TV show to be "the bitch" character. We shouldn't be fighting, we should be loving each other, like a barrel of gay monkeys.

cont'd »

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I make no excuses

by snaggle at 06:25 PM on July 12, 2004

This is a full-fledged, unapologetic plea for help and milking of all types of contacts. At long last, I have finished my graphic design degree and I'm now looking for jobs in the wonderful Los Angeles area (don't ask why LA — that's too much to go in to right now.) So if you have any contacts in the design field out there or you yourself are in the field, please check out my portfolio:

Wish me luck.

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We had a moment but Iím glad itís in the past

by ezy at 01:30 PM on July 12, 2004

Since the current theme seems to be writing the letter never sent, I thought I would jump right in.

cont'd »

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Try to make it real, compared to what?

by anna at 08:00 PM on July 11, 2004

Ronald Reagan once remarked that, "Facts are silly things." His comment met with much derision, especially among those who traffic in so-called facts within the bowels of academia and government. Yet, I agree with him. There, I said it.

Without getting too ponderous, what's a fact? Something real, verifiably or otherwise? Buxom women are often confronted with this question: Are those real? Thos with implants will often reply, "Oh no, they're fake. But I think Dr. So-and-So did such a great job. He's the best!" This is inaccurate. Both forms of boobs are equally real. One is comprised of flesh while the other is comprised of silicone gel. You can hold either one in your hands. You can assess their heft, though care must be exercised if they're attached to a stranger or coworker.

4 painters and a photographer set out to depict a scene of kids playing in Central Park. One's an impressionist, the other does figurative art while the other deals in abstract stuff. The other is this autistic kid who just throws his own shit on a canvass all day long. Whose depiction is real? You might say the photographer, but who's to say he didn't use special filters or lenses to distort "reality?" I'd go with the autistic kid as he doesn't even pretend to know what is real and what isn't.

Likewise, words can be twisted around and taken out of context. I remember OJ's lawyer Barry Scheck grilling that hapless pathologist Dennis Fung. He'd brandish a transcript and read carefully selected passages. "Were you asked these questions, did you give these answers," he'd demand to know. When Fung would attempt to clarify with a "yes, but" type response, Scheck would cut him off and insist on a yes or no answer. You all saw the disastrous result of that truth-finding mission. With any luck you won't get your head lopped off by OJ. Just to be on the safe side don't suck any dick in your living room unless the curtains are drawn.

Facts are the enemy of the truth, the perfume that masks the awful body odor that is the human condition. And it reminds me of one one of my favorite lyrics from Fleetwood Mac's Hypnotized: "They say there's a place down in Mexico where a man can fly over mountains and hills. He don't need no airplane or some kind of engine, and never will. Now you know it's a meaningless question to ask if those stories are right. Cuz what matters most is the feeling you get when you're hypnotized."

Soon after penning those immortal lines Bob Welch jetisonned his enviable rock star life to become some sort of vegan monk. Flying higher than those mythical Mexican shamans, he hit the eject button.

You show me a supposed universal fact and I will show you a demonstrably bald-faced lie. As Jim Carroll put it in song, nothing is true.

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did you know i miss you? i miss you.

by snaggle at 06:51 PM on July 11, 2004

Note: inspired by Linzís recent letters to people, I am here writing one that Iím unable to actually send because I donít have an address for this person. Sorry if itís a little self-indulgent. Soundtrack for this post: Konstantine by Something Corporate.

cont'd »

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Poor man wanna be rich, rich man wanna be king and the king ain't satisfied till he rules everything

by anna at 09:08 AM on July 10, 2004

Let us speak of the namby-pamby liberals who comprise the elite media. It is such great fun to skewer their left-leaning, commie pinko bias. Bill O'Reilly has forged an entire career out of it. All the while pretending that his isn't feeding at the very same trough as his adversaries.

Ah but why, why oh why, do they skew that way? It's famously said that people vote their pocketbooks. The rich want to maintain the status quo for purely selfish reasons. The poor want to become more like the rich. They want resources redistributed i.e. given to them for free. Or so it is said. But the fly in that ointment is that network news anchors, op-ed writers for the Washington Post and New York Times and the like all command six and sometimes seven figure salaries. They live in mansions and have servants to wipe their asses for them. Certainly supporting social programs for the indigent, higher taxes, justice for all and the rest of the so-called liberal agenda isn't in their best interest.

It's either one of two things: 1) These people are assuaging their own guilt for having it so easy all their lives. 2) They are truly admirable people, selfless to a tee. So which is it?

Fun fact: In 1996 the 447 richest people had amassed assets equal to that of the poorest 2.5 billion, 52% of the world's population. Hmmm. I have got to stop reading these crazy books.

And here's another question to ponder: Suppose you were one of those elitists with money to burn. Would you really pay someone to wipe your ass? Does Bill Gates stoop to wiping his shitty ass?

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Brake Up / Break Up

by adam at 06:44 PM on July 09, 2004

I broke up with my ex nearly four months ago, and at least partially on her advice I've started dating again, but I'm not happy about it. I feel like I've gone from watching Kurosawa movies on a 42" plasma screen TV to peering at reruns of Bewitched on a 9" B&W portable, and it ain't cool.

The worst part is that it doesn't just feel like crap to me, but it ends up going like crap for anyone that I go out with. Who can compete with such an intense relationship? Who should have to? Today I had to call someone to tell her that I wasn't feeling it anymore, but the truth of the matter is that I felt like I'd gone from curry to oatmeal, and no matter how good the oatmeal is, it can't compete with a murderous curry. I'm not one of those guys who's afraid to get too involved just in case someone better comes along, and I don't think that's what's going on here. I've just been spoiled. I got WOWed by someone on the first meeting; I had a deep emotional, physical, and intellectual connection, and now everything else feels like settling.

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by adam at 10:34 PM on July 08, 2004

Thanks to our beloved leader mg, I may have finally found someone to get my beloved MG sorted out. I started tearing the thing apart, but the call of full-time employment lured me away from my parents' garage before I could finish it. I bring this up because when I got the email from mg about the MG I was watching MTV's Pimp My Ride, and I was wishing that I could've called the pros in to hook me up - except I'm about 6 years too old, and I don't live in SoCal.

Xzibit takes some poor schmo's busted, rusted auto and gives it a makeover of questionable taste. That's pretty cool. But there's an evil version of this show: Rides with Funkmaster Flex. Flex takes a busted, rusted car from one of his MULTIMILLIONAIRE FRIENDS, and makes it over for free. What's the target demographic here? Are there people in this world who would be happy if, let's say, Michael Eisner won the lottery? And would even Eisner be enough of a jerk to make a show about it?

I think this must have something to do with modern hip-hop culture, but I can't imagine what the deal is here. Lil Flip makes a hit song in which he talks about nothing but how rich he is, and poor people everywhere eat it up. If only he could've included a shot of himself hiring a crew to paint Mariah Carey's house gratis in his video, Flip might've equalled Flex's crassness. But let's not give up hope for next time!

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Now that they're famous, I imagine they'll be working for world peace

by northstar at 08:08 PM on July 08, 2004

Home Depot gals take it off for Playboy:'s 'Women of Home Depot' pictorial features six employees minus their orange aprons

It's as old as the American Dream...or maybe it IS the American Dream. Take your clothes off, make a bunch of money, and know that teen and pre-teen boys are sneaking your pictures into their bathrooms to do whatever it is that they do in there.

Does that outfit come with orange kneepads??

Not many people realize, though, how difficult it is for Playboy to find women willing to bare it all. Through a personal contact deep within the Playboy empire, I've obtained a memo that details the organizations that they at one time thought would have enough women willing to shed their threads for posterity. Here is a partial list of organizations that were considered and ultimately given the thumbs-down:

Hey, in a day and age when virtually everyone has their own porn site, it's not easy to get women to give it up for someone else. I can hardly wait until the issue featuring the linemen from the Women's Professional Football League comes out. Oh baby....

comments (2)


Gotta tie your own rope, tie your own rope, tie your own

by anna at 06:36 PM on July 08, 2004

I wolf down my lunch at two places, a Vietnamese soup place or a BBQ joint. I eat alone, reading a series of tomes about the precipitous decline of western civilization. Death of the West, The Great Unraveling, Hollywood vs. American, I recommend 'em all. Right now I'm reading Morris Berman's ponderous Twilight of American Culture, which is like Homer Simpson boning up on the works of Homer. Berman argues that the constant barrage of hype and hoopla has got our society coming apart at the seams. He feels that "global corporate hegemony" is to to blame, whatever that means.

At the Vietnamese place the waiter speaks perfect English slang. "How you doin'," he'll chirp, adding, "sit anyplace." As I leave he goes, "Have a good one." All the other patrons are Asian but they too yak away in English as they slop their pho into their mouths. There is neither a dainty nor dignified way to eat this stuff. There's Oriental music piped in but it's drowned out by the low buzz of droning CNN anchors. They don't actually prepare the pho so much as toss the fixings on your table. The menu encourages you to "build your own pho." You'd think this might be an oasis in the desert that is plastic American McLife, but you'd be wrong.

At the barbecue place I usually order the medium (there is no small, of course) pulled pork sandwich. It consists of a bun and 3 ounces of meat. Precisely 3 ounces. The guy weighs it. If there be an extra 1/2 ounce, he'll snatch away a morsel and put it back in the pan. The large is precisely 4 ounces. One time I said, "Please stop weighing my food. Just estimate the portion. I come here all the time. It will all even out in the end." "The boss makes us weigh it," came his surly reply. Any irony was utterly lost on him.

My mom ran a restaurant and boy was she ever a big proponent of the Doctrine of Portion Controlled Servings. She'd count the number of shots that a bartender got out of a fifth of vodka. God forbid he'd come up short. Speaking of mom, she held out against pumping her own gas for years. She'd drive way out of her way and pay through the nose to avoid learning how to do it. But alas, full service stations have gone the way of all our basic conveniences. You have to trek to some backwater locale like New Jersey to get them to pump your gas. Forget checking the oil.

I'm so sick of corporations and companies shoving their singularly profit-driven agendas down my throat. But I'm not quite prepared to take Berman's suggestion that we all tune out and live a monastic existence to heart just yet. So I've done the next best thing, devising my own passive-aggressive protest. I leave my tray and trash for someone else to deal with at fast food joints. One time some twenty-something punk called me on it, saying they'd have to pay a person to clean up after me and that would drive costs up. Obviously he was too young to recall the day when this sick policy went into effect. Signs were posted at tables encouraging patrons to bus their own damn tables. At first people balked, but as with everything this McWorld shoves up our asses like an oversize dildo, we've come to accept it. We're such a dutiful, resigned lot. I think CNN has us hypnotized.

Know that what tastes like ambrosia nectar to the honchos of Microsoft, IBM, McDonald's and Exxon-Mobil-Chevron-Texaco is cyanide to you. For their interests are diametrically opposed to your own. And thus it shall remain until the twilight of American culture.

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in ancient rome there was a poem, about a dog who found two bones

by mg at 03:30 PM on July 07, 2004

Since I’ve been able to vote, I have voted republican. But, with quite a while still to go until November, I’m actually considering casting my lot in with The Two Johns (and by that I mean Kerry and Edwards, not They Might Be Giants, though if they were president, we’d definitely regain the respect of the world back. Or at least the respect of the world’s nerds). But, I'm actually considering voting for the democratic ticket.

cont'd »

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We been up and down this highway ain't seen a goddamn thing

by anna at 08:48 PM on July 06, 2004

And so, languishing in the grocery line desperate for any sensory input, we learn that Mary Kate Olsen doesn't suffer from bulimia after all. She's a crackhead, or so the tabloids scream. Her problem is Much, Much Worse!! It's the drugs. The horrors!

Now the only thought I've ever had about this girl is how it creeps me out when many radio guys drool about the day she and her sister become legal for sex. I think they should be forced to watch grainy reruns of Full House until they are disabused of such shameful notions once and for all.

Yet, having been up and down all these one-way streets, I took a passing interest in this tale. Back in the the mid-80s, my wife and I split due to a misunderstanding. Without my rudder, the Good Ship Anna began to list. I soon descended into a similar world of nightmarish misery. When I showed up on her doorstep all bedraggled, emaciated and haggard a year later she hardly recognized me. Maybe her motherly instincts caused her to invite my scary ass in. I don't know.

This sort of thing was an occupational hazard for many of us. In theory you don't sample the product but in the real world, it happens. To justify it we'd separate ourselves from the ghetto crackheads by saying that what we were doing was freebasing. (See David Crosby's racist tome Long Time Gone.) But in a pinch we'd find ourselves downtown at the 24-7 open air market, fidgeting and waiting for the brother to shout, "Whatchou need?"

So I look at at Mary Kate's plight in a slightly different light. Perhaps she'd be better off if all she had was an eating disorder, perhaps not. All I know is that she's found the world's best and worst diet all at once. Cocaine is a serious appetite suppressant, especially when cooked into crystalline form. And even if you did somehow experience a hunger pang, you have no money and the thought of going out in public to grab a bite is unthinkable.

Say a prayer for this bony little wench. She's been subjected to the white-hot, uncaring glare of celebrity since she was like, three years old. Just what would you expect?

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everything was as fresh as a bright blue sky

by mg at 02:31 PM on July 06, 2004

Just a little while ago, the wife and I were sitting eating lunch, and watching Mr. Rogers Neighborhood, while little Franny lay asleep in her swing.

cont'd »

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If I knew Picasso, I would buy myself a grey guitar and play

by anna at 09:10 AM on July 05, 2004

Jerry Hall said, "my mother told me it was simple to keep a man. You have to be a chef in the kitchen, a maid in the living room and a whore in the bedroom. I said I'd hire the other two and take care of the bedroom bit." Well, it isn't that simple. Her marriage to Mick Jagger got annulled in '99.

We need to understand how to agree on things, concede the small points. We had a case in point after we moved. We agreed that the tired old Monets that had graced our walls for so many years had to go. How to replace them proved a sticking point.

Although we agreed on some basic parameters (no abstract art, nothing overly familiar, no photoes) it still turned into a huge hassle. One site boasts 10,000 prints to choose from. 10,000 artistic atrocities is more like it. Every so often I'd find something but she'd make this non-commital "Ehh" sound that means it's ok but I don't Love It. Women must Love It. Guys are like, it'll do.

We learned that we don't like The Masters. We also don't care for Van Go's childish finger-painting. To me that style is to art as punk rock or grunge were to rock music. On the contrary, I fell in love with this artist. My wife found her work too cutesy.

Like many foolish art neophytes we thought it made sense to settle on one artist. That way the prints were sure to complement one another, right? Not necessarily. We learned that Robert Mapplethorpe, best known for wedging buggy whips up men's asses, could also weild a mean paint brush. This problem was compounded by the fact that we already had some pricey frames and we weren't eager to spring for more. You get all confused by "image size" vs. "paper size" vs. "framed size" and before long your eyes start to glaze over.

After weeks of this, we agreed on some art. She loved Plaza After the Rain. She grudgingly agreed to Kieffer's Evening Street Scene. But another one of Cornoyer's paintings came in the mail and looked all faded, like the printer was running out of ink. So we've got one blank space left. Any suggestions?

My friend bought a condo and stopped at one of those roadside art displays. He snapped up a dozen framed prints and slapped them on his walls. He measured the distance between them carefully, so it looked like a generic hotel room. He then purchased some portrait frames and left the smiling generic people's pictures in there. His home was the stylistic equivalent of a strip mall, complete with a Wendy's, WalMart and CVS. He is gay, belying an ill-founded stereotype. Where are those Queer Eye guys when you need them?

When it comes to art and beauty, there's no accounting for taste. Hence PissChrist, catwalk fashions and the Turner Prize-winning The Lights Going On and Off.

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Whattaya Got?

by anna at 08:37 AM on July 03, 2004

Once again a cultural icon has bitten the dust. The massive Marlon Brando is no more. I always thought he was one of the greatest actors of all time, albeit if a bit of a kook in real life. Look for a major circus when it comes time to divvy up his loot between a motley crew of acknowledged children, illegitimate (what an antiquated term!) kids, inmates and housekeepers.

You turn on the TV or open a newspaper and there are these meticulously researched and written bios of the latest luminary to die. (In Brando's case we learn that he took the coveted Don Corleone role only because he saw The Godfather as a screed against corporate greed. Huh? Or that he was paid $3.7 million for 12 days work on Superman.)

Most of them have long been out of the limelight. Their heyday came 'n went long before most of today's writers' memory span. So how do they come up with all these obscure life details and produce such quality product on such short notice?

Obviously these things were produced and canned well in advance. Somewhere there's a shelf that contains all the bios of old famous people who are likely to conk out at any given moment. Once, a news outlet broke out one of Bob Hope well before his actual demise. Others followed suit. He read it. Shades o' Monty Python: Uh, I'm not quite dead yet. Conk! Now you are.

All of this has that same creepily macabre feel to it as those morbid office and online death pools. Fortunately for me, I hit the trifecta with Reagan, Ray Charles and now Brando. At the same time I must say the world will miss all them sorely.

So, Johnny, what are you rebelling against? Uh, corporate greed. Not.

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At least now you'll have an excuse to remain seated during the 7th-inning stretch

by northstar at 08:40 PM on July 02, 2004

Connected at the old ballgame: Astros to offer WiFi service starting today

OK, so maybe this weekend I'll tote my laptop off to Minute Maid Park to sample the epic battles that are Astros-Rangers games. If the game gets boring, I can always peruse porn, news sites, eh? Consider the possiblities, though. What if Jimy Williams is sitting in the dugout with a laptop of his own? Why not e-mail him, and tell him to get off his @$$ and pull Tim Redding? Or, why not email Gerry Hunsicker and tell him to fire Jimy Williams? Lord knows the Astros are underachieving something fierce. At this point, it looks as if they may well waste the wonderful gift that is Rogers Clemens (sorry, Yankees fans...).

Why sit on the sidelines and waste your cell phone minutes calling Jim Rome to bitch about how poorly your Astros are playing? Why not take advantage of the awesome power that is the Internet and go directly to the source? No, Drayton McLane may not be taking your calls, but he may just get your e-mail. The possibilities are endless. What could be more empowering?

Of course, this is all well and good, but the first time someone spills beer or drips nacho cheese onto my keyboard, IT IS ON! I suppose even state-of-the-art technology has it's limitations....

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Gotta Catch em All!

by doyce at 10:54 AM on July 02, 2004

Summer boredom got you and the kids down? Did you already work your way through the wonders of the CIA kids' page?

Not to worry! The Centers for Disease Control have collectible infectious disease trading cards available for download and full-color printing!

No, I'm not kidding!

Yes, it is just as horrifying wonderful as you might expect!

Mix 'em, match 'em, trade 'em, cringe, and run far, far away!

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