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In between updates on the accumulating tsunami death toll, I'm spending my life playing video games. I was going to shop around for just the right football game, but may actually stick with NCAA 2005, which was included with the Device. One of its prime features is the freedom to invent your own college team; thus, I was compelled to create the infamous Sam Houston Institute of Technology and locate it in Arlen. Hopefully coach Rusty Shackleford and I can make the Howdies into winners, both on and off the field.
The comfort of a sheltered family, a 4-day weekend, coffee and an imaginary athletic team is pretty good stuff.
So we've surrendered control of our home to the Insidious Device, which many of you refer to as an "X-Box". Amongst the unit's manuals and warranty info was the phrase "Congratulations on owning the most exciting product on the planet!"
Shyeah. Obviously, these guys have never heard of a little operation called Dr. Scholl's.
A brief look at the pagan roots of December 25th traditions.
An article referencing scriptural data to approximate the birthdate of Jesus.
Finally, Baby Jesus is diagnosed as having had hypothermia, based on prominent Nativity paintings (provided his halo didn't indicate a "neutral thermal zone").
Brought to you by Plaxico™, a division of SlabCorp - the industry leader in poly-urethane reinforcements.
"Bicycles are still legal in many states", so watch your crotch: important info from the Scrotal Safety Commission.
(Provided by the creators of Adult Swim's Venture Brothers.)
And in my other dream last night, I was shopping for an Apple computer for some reason, and I found one I liked for $885. The total with tax and credit card interest was $2800. Why I would spend that much money on anything, I don't know. It must have been all that money I ate before bedtime.
The rain began this morning, earlier than anticipated. As I drove past the airport, snowflakes were introduced into the mess, and by the time I arrived, it was sleet, and there was an accumulation in the parking lot. If this continues and temperatures continue to drop, as that witch-doctor we call the Weatherman claims, north Texas roads will soon lay beneath an icy glaze, daunting to only the most cautious and competent of drivers.
If you haven't seen "Bubba Ho-Tep", you need to. If you haven't watched the optional version featuring commentary from The King himself, you need to. Because I care about your needs.
When I grow up, I want to be like my kid: several times a week, she gets up at 6am to work out with Denise Austin. Entirely on her own. That's just the kind of reckless initiative I need.
It's possible that in all these posts, I've neglected to mention the episodes of self-destructive rage that sneak up on me every few months. The ones that began way back before I can remember, probably in the 60's. So we'll continue to bypass this non-topic and instead focus on something important.
Captain's log, star trek 4801.2. . .So what I done was, I dusted off a CD I ain't listened to in about a year: One of my all-time favorites, "The Green Album" by Eddie Jobson & Zinc. Jobson has played with UK, Roxy Music, and Tull, and was actually a member of Yes briefly. This guy is a keyboard master and electric violinist, plus a fine singer, and I'm not convinced he couldn't kick Jean Luc Ponty's ass.
The Green Album is a science-fictiony masterpiece that sounds quite futuristic, even for today, let alone 1983 when it was produced. Join me and the 9 or so other people who have heard it by hunting it down for yourself, to love and caress with a secret tenderness you withhold from everyone except Sulu.
Another classic: Bullshit Bingo
A great name for a band would be The Braxton Hicks Experience.
Why nerds are unpopular: an essay by some computer guy.
If I had x-ray vision, it'd be fun to go around with my eyes shut and see through my eyelids. Some people probably wouldn't find it very amusing - like Whittemore. He'd be all like "You think that's funny?" and I'd reply with something clever and sarcastic. Then he pulled a knife on me, and again the next day. . .3 times in one week. Finally, I opened my eyes to glare at him, at his audacity. To carry around a weapon like that was bad enough, but the stains on his lapel (probably barbecue sauce, knowing him) pushed me over the edge, and I realized that I loathed his entire second-rate existence - his me-me-me attitude, and the half-ass way he always did everything. "Loser. He's not worth my time", I said. I'd be taking my business someplace else. It was time for a change of scenery, anyhow.
END OF SIDE ONE PLEASE TURN THE TAPE OVER TO CONTINUE
Only 73 more days until Presidents Day. As we approach this magic time of year, I present an excerpt from David Letterman's classic Presidents Day Quiz, from about 20 years ago when he was funny instead of annoying. . .
If Abraham Lincoln were alive today, he would be:
a) publishing his Civil War memoirs
b) advising our current president on today's critical issues
c) clawing desperately at the inside of his coffin
I miss being able to send trouble tickets to IT, which I did frequently at my old job. There were constant glitches in the crappy Oracle system we were burdened with, and at one point I sent a ticket asking "When Oracle becomes sentient and assembles itself a proto-synthetic body in which to roam our halls, will it remember all the stuff I've been saying about it?"
They never even responded to me. Jerks. I don't miss that at all, actually.
Cool - I think we're gonna try this for our science fair project.
Clones, biological computers, GM humanoids. . .the very pixie dust of Mankind's sweet rainbow dreams.
I just read an editorial in the Dallas Morning News regarding the increasing popularity of blogs. They pointed out the fact that blogsters are considered Publishers and can be sued for libel. I didn't know this. . .but be careful: if you sue me for libel, I'll counter-sue you for some crazy made-up stuff to be named later.
Since I find sports team logos that properly represent the team's name and/or location oddly satisfying, I enjoy The Bush League Factor. Quite an enjoyable site, especially when you get to some of the crappier team emblems, like that of the Tulsa Oilers.
I recall years ago one of my brother's commercial art textbooks documented the creation of the Hartford Whalers logo: The tips of the big "W" were originally pointed to look vaguely like three harpoons, until they came up with the idea to use a whale's tail instead, which looked better and still formed an implied "H" within the "W". Even cooler was the fact that the Binghamton Whalers, Hartford's minor league club, wore the same uniforms, but with the logo turned sideways, transforming the "W" into a "B". But despite such creativity, what do we end up with? The team moved and became the Carolina Hurricanes, the NHL season is cancelled anyhow, and I still suck.
So the office Xmas thingy is this weekend at some Italian place. Since I'm already exhausted by the concept of adopting human form, showing up, and having to pretend to act socially functional, I'm trying to decide whether I should simply fail to appear, or mention beforehand the possibility of not making it (which potentially invites the hassle of explaining that I'd rather spend the evening analyzing cartoons, either with others of my ilk, or with no one at all and in my underwear).
So we saw "The Forgotten" today. If I had to write a single-sentence review, it would read "Absent-minded soccer mom becomes addicted to caffeine, with hilarious results."
Very intense movie, featuring the T-1000 Terminator as a Mysterious Conspirator. Good for a couple of cheap heart attacks, and, philosophically, it ranks right up there with "Mission To Mars".
Since I don't recall ever linking to goeffyourself.com before, I'll do so now. This amusing site belongs to my friend and favorite Jersey Scum, Sean.
Our 13th wedding anniversary is next week, and I'm planning something pretty darned special. You can't tell me that a McDonald's inside a Wal-Mart isn't every bit as good as a regular McDonald's.
what key signature are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Eb major - you are warm and kind, always there for
your friends, who are in turn there for you.
You are content with your confortable life and
what you are currently achieving; if you keep
in this state you will go far.
My response: No comment. I think this is totally wrong for me. E flat is fine if you're a. . .an oboe or something, but not me. No sir.
I purchased "She-Hulk: Single Green Female" recently, which is the first trade paperback I've ever bought with no real prior exposure to or affinity for the character in question, but based solely on reviews and my appreciation for other work by the writer, Dan Slott of "Arkham Asylum: Living Hell". (Meridian books don't count due to the compelling visual appeal of its fantasy sky-scapes, similar to those old Yes album covers by Roger Dean, plus the fact that one publication's review recommended the series for fans of Dune).
Absolutely. The official Club Devo communique.
The next time your boss holds a meeting, and concludes it by asking if there are any questions, blurt out "Yeah: What is so damn wrong with wanting to do Hillary Clinton in a kiddie pool?!"
The breakroom at work has one of those vending machines that you rotate to make your selection and then slide open the bin to retrieve it. I'm once again feeling the urge to exploit the fact that you can hold the little door open after you remove your chocolate milk or sandwich and leave something in its place. I think I've decided that this time it'll be Preparation H - and at only a fraction of the drugstore cost.
Today's update of the Comics Continuum mentions that Marvel is relaunching Black Panther in his own series, which is good news. My only concern is that the description given makes no reference to the excellent 5-year-long Panther series written by Christopher Priest which ended just last year. Priest used multi-layered, alinear storytelling - laced with some intense humor - to help establish the Panther as not just a token black hero, but as a political mastermind, always several moves ahead of his adversaries (and often his allies, as well). The book was consistently one of the best out there, and I'd hate to see the new creative team ignore the monumental stuff Priest did with this character.
Someday, I hope to be as accomplished a musician as Super Greg. . .
Take the Meyers-Briggs Personality Test. This particular version compares your results with the personalities of various anime characters, and tells you who you're probably similar to.
Let me know if you turn out to be an INTJ like me - we can maybe get together and bitch about everything and then try to fix it all, but succeed at fixing only some of it, and bitch some more about the rest of it.
So I've obtained the coveted Antares Vocal Producer, and in the next couple of months, I plan on getting a lot of things done, and finally turning the corner towards becoming a real live wannabe. Flipping through the manual, I see a section which encourages experimentation with the unit's effects, including the following suggestion:
"Assign a scale consisting of only one note. Enter Bypass mode before beginning the performance, then engage Auto-Tune while singing an interval of a fifth or more from the scale note, and then re-enter Bypass mode to continue the normal performance. This effect can sound quite like the abruptly beautiful vocal ornaments of the Pygmies."
Sweeeet.
Perhaps you've noticed that this page is where I bitch about pathetic, stupid stuff that I have to deal with. Like Spaz, the guy who's technically my immediate superior. Spaz likes to micro-manage, and seems unwilling to take the risk that his associates, such as myself, know which way is up. When he asks "Why did we cancel this one?" the temptation to say "I dunno - I just randomly decided to cancel one, since I'm clueless" instead of "Because they don't need it anymore" is simply overwhelming.
So at 6:15, I'm waiting outside for Female Prime to pick me up, since my car is in the shop. Spaz comes out, sees me, and stops, and smiles, a kind of Something-Here-Isn't-Right smile. He says "Kev. Whatcha doing?"
"Uh. . .waiting."
"You need a ride?"
"Nah, my wife's on her way."
"Well, how long are - er, you just waiting here until she shows up?"
"Um, yeah. Should be any time now."
I swear, I was certain he wanted to ask "Are you going to be alright?"
But thanks, Mike. I already have a mommy. It's all Oh-Kay. You go take care of the other 6 billion boys and girls.
Now we're talking.
If you're thinking about coming up with a money-making scam involving phony pacemakers, forget it - we thought of it first.
Welcome to Link City. . .
Evidence which suggests that Bush is the leader of a cult.
A claim that the Iraq War was conducted strictly according to occult holidays and numbers.
An editorial on The Culture of Death.
Steve Martin's classic "What I Believe" monologue.
On the way into Work™, I saw two FedEx trucks - a regular Federal Express van, and a FedEx Ground one. The first one was a full 3 car lengths ahead of the Ground one. No wonder Ground is cheaper.
So there was a public Q & A last night featuring a couple of NHL executives at the Stars' arena regarding status of the league's lockout. They should be glad I wasn't there. The fact that neither the millionaires nor the billionaires will budge to help reach an agreement on how to split revenues is asinine. They could all live pretty @#$% nicely on half the @#$% money they've been earning and still feed a bunch of @#$% homeless people. Meanwhile, they continue to alienate their customer base, many of whom are probably getting along fine without pro hockey. I know I am. Furthermore, a number of players have signed on with minor league teams, essentially taking jobs from younger players who have been working their butts off for 1/10th the salary just to establish themselves. And I read a story a couple weeks ago about an arena janitor who showed up for work on opening night, unaware that there was no game. I wonder whether he's in the players' or owners' corner. . .
Fuck this.
Today's Bible word is "piss", from Isaiah 36:12(KJV). . .
But Rabshakeh said, Hath my master sent me to thy master and to thee to speak these words? [hath he] not [sent me] to the men that sit upon the wall, that they may eat their own dung, and drink their own piss with you?
I didn't mention this last time the owner of the company paid us a visit, but I need to now: His appearance and mannerisms remind me of Captain Kirk disguised as a Klingon.
We're finally getting our rain.
It really makes you appreciate these man-made shelters.
I should probably start taking Ginseng, since I hear it's the third deadliest martial art known to man behind Origami and Feng Shui.
Just how should one react to Lobster Magnet?
So at the CompUSA warehouse where we're located, they've had these flyers posted for some play they're doing called "The Wizard of Odds". They do it each year for the regional executive-types, and the performance is today. The amount of manpower they're wasting on this thing is ridiculous - there are a number of people who seem to be working on this full-time. You'd think it was the high school senior drama club or something.
Also, there's this group of guys who gather near our area to chat and tell jokes for up to an hour, twice per day. Yesterday one of them brought in a pile of Warhammer miniatures and had his buddies help to remove them from the plastic sprues.
What suckers we are, working all day. Maybe I should bring in those boxes of photos that need sorted. Also, we've been discussing the formation of an interpretive dance troupe. And an arts & crafts bazaar would be fun. I guess they're right - there's a lot more entertaining stuff we could be doing on company time than processing parts orders.
So last night, the two girls and their brutish mom who live across the street were outside in their pajamas looking for the eclipse at 8:15. If the kids were 4 or 5 they wouldn't have looked quite so retarded, but we're talking a high-schooler and a 10-year-old. I'm actually surprised they weren't carrying teddy bears and hot cocoa.
Apparently, the urban legend regarding the Washington Redskins dictating the outcome of presidential elections is true. This page has details. The Skins' game this Sunday is against the Packers, who've scored 106 points in their past three games. Look for the Bush Administration to authorize a covert attempt on Brett Favre's life between now and gametime.
What kind of a future is this in which we have Liquid Paper, Liquid Gold, and Liquid-Plumr, but a personal jet-pack is still beyond my reach? We can liquefy everything, but I can't fly to work. I'll tell you what, it's Hell, that's what it is.
It's a special, special day in a father's life when his daughter decides to go to her halloween party dressed as an undead Hilary Duff.
There are certain things I do miss about the old job. . .like going to the fridge in the break room and finding an unsigned note taped to its door, saying "IF I CATCH ANYONE THAT TAKES MY DRINK I WILL KICK YOU ASS", and the temptation to sign it with the name of the 60-year-old company vice president.
When I was a kid, I used to pretend that those road flares in my parents' glove box were dynamite. The fact that I still do is irrelevant.
So they're saying Kerry took the edge in the final debate, but I'm pretty sure he would have put it away for good had he appeared wearing a gas mask.
More seeds of the Bene Gesserit: This article talks about the potential of using humans as lie detectors, which nudges us towards the emergence of the fabled Truthsayers of the Sisterhood.
I hate that those little silica gel packets say "Do Not Eat", 'cuz they look delicious.
This high school football game being televised on ESPN2 tonight is only a block away from where I work. I'm famous!
I was going to rant and rave about how the NHL season should have begun tonight, but remains at risk of being cancelled entirely due to the players' association strike, and the complete absurdity of these guys stiffing their employers because their sport doesn't feature quite the same ridiculous benefits and pay scale as football, baseball or basketball, and how they ought to consider getting paycheck-to-paycheck jobs like the rest of us, but instead I'll just link to this.
(This has to be read as though spoken with the voice of a baffled Indian, a la Apu Nahasapeemapetilan):
Electricity is not juice.
Holy shit - some people get so uptight. Q-Tips, toothpicks. . .whatever. They're practically the same.
And I've been doing what all day? Playing Star Wars/Knights of the Old Republic. Pretty damn cool, I hafta say. Few things are more rewarding than helping a wanted alien fake his own death. And the answer to the question we've all been wondering: Yes, you can send a Jedi princess into battle wearing just her underwear.
This Metafilter blog features a link to The Ultimate Bad Candy Website, and also mentions Haw Flakes, a review of which I submitted to the folks at Bad Candy a couple years ago (but they never used it). I was introduced to Haw Flakes by my favorite Cambodian babe, who used to have all kinds of "interesting" snacks in her desk. The flakes were little discs of dried pink paste, resembling tiny baloney slices. They had a mild fruit flavor, and a horrible texture. The unexpected treat was that one of our flakes had a fly baked right in. My theory was that just as I'd always hope for a Reggie Jackson when I bought baseball cards, perhaps little Asian kids spend their allowance on Haw Flakes hoping to find a fly. Who knows.
I read something interesting this morning: "For thicker oatmeal, use less water."
But I can't for the life of me remember where I saw this.
I guess I didn't sleep very deeply last night, considering that when I briefly got up at 3-something, I was alert enough to a) remember that the toilet isn't flushing right, and b) recognize that simply peeing in the sink was an easier alternative to visiting the other bathroom.
You might assume I've swiped the link to this exquisite internet delight from Blinky the Tree Frog, but I have in front of me the express, written consent of Major League Baseball.
As I made my way across the brittle wastes of what was once called the Forgotten Basin, it struck me: true, the Cartwrights didn't know Festus, but they new OF him, and THAT was enough to change the way we think about a luxury sedan.
Someone needs a lecture on the importance of selecting the right bass drum for their music, and it's me. But I figured it out on my own, so spare me the lecture.
I need to find out whether we're allowed to smoke in the warehouse if it's already on fire, in case I ever decide to start smoking.
I was driving along behind this silver Muzak van, which took the same exit as I did. My heart leapt as it turned where I turned, but then my hopes were crushed when it kept on driving as I pulled into the warehouse parking lot. 'Cuz, that's what this place needs, is some elevator music.
FYI: the stuff in the dryer is clean.
In related news, I keep forgetting to link to the Star Wars Pants page, which lists lines from the movies altered to include a reference to pants. The best ones are from The Empire Strikes Back (Boba Fett: "Put Captain Solo in the cargo pants" and Darth Vader: "I am altering the pants - pray I do not alter them further"). Maybe the site will eventually include Episode II, in which Obi-Wan, assessing the army of clones in training, can utter "Impressive. I look forward to seeing them in pants."
Star Wars, Star Wars everywhere. Most of us who have visited Dune can never go back to those days when the SW universe was the Place To Be.
I have a difficult time not feeling like George Lucas borrowed the concept of the Force (at least in part) from an early sci-fi book published back in 1947. "Perelandra" features an ambitious scientist who declares being driven to his pursuits by the Force, which is described practically the same as in the "Star Wars" series. I think it pans out in Lucas' favor, though, that the Force from stories is nearly identical to the pricelessly Benign new-age energies by which a snowballing portion of us in real life seek to become "like gods and not surely die", which makes his use of it in the movies not so much a swiping of an already-established fictional premise, but an endorsement of an actual religious practice.
Still, Luke wouldn't have survived a week on Arrakis.
Review: Robin #126.
Part of my job includes updating service orders with the part numbers of components ordered by the repair techs. This one guy just ordered 4 things for a laptop, and I wanted to conclude my part number list with "Order a 5th part and get a free balloon", but I'm too new to get away with such shenanigans. Also, the tech in question is a little old Asian man who prolly wouldn't get it.
Homeboy was telling me about when he was in the Navy, and a bunch of guys went to play paintball: Some moron invited a Seal, who took the liberty of sneaking up on his opponents and "slitting" their throats with a black marker, leaving a nice clean stripe representing a pretend fatal laceration. Fun City.
The Chapstick I've been working on for a year or so expires next month. But it's only half gone - once November arrives, the remainder turns toxic and will go to waste. This is why they should make convenient travel-size Chapstick, so you're not stuck paying $1.59 for a whole one that you'll never finish.
Here are two different previews of the first issue of the Nightcrawler comic debuting this week. Most everyone here at Cloud 9 is looking forward to this series (and those who aren't will change their tune once they've received their injections).
As you grow older and life continues to unfold, you sometimes face conflicts you hoped you'd never experience. Unexpected changes leave us barely able to cope with what fate has dealt, and wondering why things can be so unfair. What I'm getting at is that it was so much easier when the Buccaneers and Seahawks weren't in the same conference.
My daughter's cheerleading squad sounded pretty good yesterday, helping the football team to a respectable 13-0 loss (which was an improvement after getting beat by 30-something points last week). It'd probably be better, though, if instead of relying so much on the standard cheers, they'd use ones more relevant to the team's performance, such as:
"Out! Of! BOUNDS! [clap] Punt-it-OUTTA-BOUNDS [clap clap]"
or
"IF-ya-can't-get-'em-clean-GET-'em-by-the-FACE-mask!"
But it's not the coach's fault - he yells really loud. A lot. So you know he's a good coach, and not just a bastardly perfectionist with a short fuse who acts like he bets money on his own team.
The songs page has been updated, featuring the newly-completed "This Grain of Sand", which edges out "Resolution" as my finest creation to date (due to accessibility: straight 6/8 time throughout, versus Resolution's odd meters and dubious form).
Me, me, me. Yep.
There was a sticker saying "Hugs not Drugs" on a car in front of me yesterday. The credibility of any statement is severely damaged when it's relayed via bumper sticker. The medium simply cannot be taken seriously. Furthermore, even the most legitimate of sentiments can be rendered invalid if presented as a rhyme. Bumper stickers featuring rhymes are possibly the worst form of communication known to man.
A brief review of Judge Dredd: The Complete America. I haven't yet decided whether the test will be multiple choice or fill-in-the-blank.
I'm wanting to change what we typically say when someone sneezes, from "Bless you" to "Easy there, Commodore!"
Your participation is welcomed.
The 2004 NFL season begins tonight with a special Thursday edition of Monday Night Football.
Back in '85, ABC had issues with their announcing crew for MNF. Play-by-play guy Frank Gifford was still the man, but they couldn't get any commentators that were any good. OJ Simpson and Joe Namath both sounded like morons. Some magazine had a write-in campaign, asking viewers who they'd like to see as replacements. For me, the choice was obvious: Leonard Nimoy and Shirley Hemphill, handcuffed together.
Gifford: "And the Falcons' draw play on 3rd & 14 comes up short. . ."
Nimoy: "That was illogical."
Hemphill: "Shut UP, foo!"
Wow - Labor Day already. But summer's not over yet: I present to you Catch 22 on Cloud 9's first annual Swimsuit Edition.
Suppose Eli Manning turned out to be the next Keith Gretzky? Remember Keith? Drafted by Buffalo in '85, he labored for years in three different minor leagues and two European divisions before resigning himself to coaching, never achieving a fraction of the success of his older brother. The thought of Eli doing the same amuses me, primarily because I doubt he can even skate.
Casual Friday? This is a foreign concept. But mark my words, there's going to DENIM on this ass next week.
NBC's Last Comic Standing is pretty funny. One of the best lines from Monday night's episode was when Tammy Pescatelli was discussing her dumb friend, and how much better it can make you feel about yourself when you associate with someone who's stupid.
"You know who she thinks attacked the World Trade Center? Oksana Baiul."
I used to read Mister Boffo in the newspaper. The website has over 600 archived strips dating back to the 80's.
These two are among my favorites.
Review - Arkham Asylum: Living Hell #1
I wore a shirt today, figuring it would impress the executive-types. (Also, I recently noticed that the hair on my chest sort of forms an inverted pentagram, and I didn't want to get sent home for scaring people. Damn office politics.)
We were discussing at work today (yes, work) whether we should use our position in the computer industry to steer mankind towards a "Terminator" sort of future, or that of "The Matrix", or even "Blade Runner". But you know what? It's all good.
I finally saw "Spider-Man 2" this afternoon. The film is rich in archetypes and symbolism, with deep layers of relevance and context. For those who haven't seen it yet, I'll just briefly mention that it boils down to a story about a boy - a boy who knew that it wasn't good enough to be everything they wanted him to be. A boy who couldn't face another day knowing that he was never the same as all the rest of them expected him to become; the kind of boy with a dream, a hope that someday, somewhere, his meaning would make a difference in the lives of multitudes of the kind of people he knew would someday expect him to try hard enough to make that difference in the lives of those people. A boy who would one day finally make that choice, the one they needed, and become the very thing that all those years of failure proved to him that he was the only one that knew they needed him to be the kind of person that someone, someday, would hope for. A story about a boy with all those dreams, who could always, only, make the kind of life that too few knew could be a new beginning, until finally, one day, that boy became a hero, who never gave up until the very near the end of the movie when the end is near and they saw what he saw - a new day for the kind of story that has yet to even begin, with no ending and minimal prologue, and the kind of world that only the heart of a boy can envision, through the eyes of a young boy.
If you look closely enough, you just might see yourself.
You are looking at the newest employee of whatever company my old boss now works for. Congratulations.
So I've been watching the Olympics a little, whenever the girls have it on. Some of the events could be improved, I think, to attract more viewers. Example: Weightlifting should be a relay. Also, every sport should incorporate the use of a shot-put - except the water sports, of course, which would instead feature the javelin.
Did anyone else ever run one of those long purple Tinkertoys through a pencil sharpener in an attempt to make a functional arrow?
I've also recently thought about being a weatherman. . .
"Storm's a-comin'! I can feel it in m' SHIN BONES!"
Twenty years ago as President Reagan was campaigning for re-election, I saw this commercial on TV for Gates brand engine belts. The "mechanic" explained that the belts in most people's engines don't get changed frequently enough, allowing potentially hazardous frays and cracks to develop. If you replace your belts - with Gates brand - you can avoid serious problems before they occur. He ended the ad with the statement "Gates. Because after four years, it's time for a change."
Even back then, at 17ish, I couldn't help but view it as some kind of poorly-veiled, quasi-subliminal political tactic. I had never, ever seen a commercial for engine belts before that, and never have since. "After four years, it's time for a change." It was so lame. I wish that today, instead of all the arguing over whose wartime medals were really deserved, or so-and-so's dubious military service, they'd use contrived commercial ads for obscure (or even non-existent) products to steer voters' inclinations.
"ListerMint: because you need to fight a more sensitive war on terrible breath."
"Vietnamese? Again?! Change your foreign food policy with Carrie's™!"
It would be so much more fun.
I once received I am better than your kids as an email. Fortunately, it wasn't too hard to track down.
Today is the anniversary of Elvis Presley's death. Accordingly, I offer here the lyrics of "Outdoor Elvis" by the Swirling Eddies:
out there where the air is clean
the red woods high, and the grass is green
people tell me they have seen
a giant footprint
is he fishing and skiing and hunting duck
with a guitar, shotgun, and a pick-up truck?
well, with any kind of luck
we'll photograph him
oh, oh, come again outdoor elvis
be our friend, save us outdoor elvis
the world has hope 'cause he's feelin' good
escaped the city, lives in the woods
this is the spot i think he stood
here's a giant footprint
a plaster cast where the pilgrims flock
and a ticket lines around the block
if we don't have the king what have we got?
life don't make no sense
oh, oh, come again outdoor elvis
be our friend, save us outdoor elvis
we have sinned, forgive us outdoor elvis
we'll build a shrine among the pines to you
we might have to set a trap to bring him back
dead or alive, if we want to survive
we gotta' bring him back (bring him back)
oh, oh, oh, oh
in his fishin' vest and his silver cape
i'll bet he's really looking great
you can pretty much tell that he's lost weight
from the depth of his footprint
it's said he croons when the moon's above
singing tenderly, "hunk a burnin' love"
it's nice to know he's still got his stuff hasn't
lost the accent
oh, oh, come again outdoor elvis
be our friend, save us outdoor elvis
we have sinned, forgive us outdoor elvis
we'll build a shrine among the pines to you
('till the end of time we'll stand in this line for you)
o.e. o.e. we look for a sign from you
we might have to set a trap
dead or alive, we'll bring him back
It's a little late now, but I should have run for President - I have gumption, moxie, and chutzpah, plus some intangible qualities. Oh well. Maybe next year.
As the Olympics begin, I offer the following to America's athletes:
Dear Team USA,
Stay away from that Olympic torch. It isn't safe, and you don't need to be messing with it.
I'm going to begin presenting select comics reviews on those rare occasions when I have nothing else to post. It'll be like when WGN shows 1984 World Series highlights during a Cubs rain delay.
Let's start with Batgirl #25.
From the research staff at Musings of a Random Nature. . .
Weight Watchers recipe cards from 30 years ago. Good stuff. Be sure to visit the sites they link to - if you keep following the trail, you may never find your way out.
The NFL pre-season begins this evening with the annual Hall of Fame game.
Back in 1976 (during a childhood in Oklahoma), 7-11 had a series of collectable NFL Slurpee cups. We went to the only 7-11 in town hoping to score some, and when my mom asked the clerk if they had them, he said "No, but we got NBA stars." Mommy, probably drunk at the time, jumped down the guy's throat, saying "I don't want those damn n*ggers in MY cabinets!"
So with all apologies to Dr. J and George Gervin, I think it's safe to say that you skin more cats with flies than with vinegar.
I was going to mention that if you're ever watching TV with my kid, and they show that commercial for the Tempur-Pedic bed featuring amazing space-age memory foam, a proven way to annoy her is to suggest calling in a couple hundred times for the free sample of the foam so you can just assemble the bed for free, but I discovered that this guy is actually carrying out such a plan. The bastard! Always one step ahead.
Forty years later, Davey And Goliath is still on the cutting edge - what other show teaches the importance of forgiveness using the timeless metaphor of a canine composed of its own feces and a boy wearing a tablecloth?
So for the longest time, we were somehow getting Showtime for free. Now it's gone. Fine. I didn't want to keep watching Dead Like Me anyway. FINE!
Just because that one country-ass security guy is presented as a surprise witness and claims he heard you threaten your psychiatrist with a ball-peen hammer doesn't mean anything - am I right?
August. When the snow finally melts away, allowing neighborhood children to harvest the vast fields of chewed-up whiffle balls. When the urine level in the public pool reaches its peak, and when lovers watch in silent awe as grocery carts instinctively find their way back to the Kroger parking lot. Truly, these are no "dog days"; this magic time is a steaming bin in life's rich buffet.
Damn. Apparently there was already a band named Pleasure Craft, in Seattle. But it's probably for the best - I can't go Double-Myrrh with that kind of name.
We have a problem, kids. Spawn: The Undead #6 is still missing. I'm going to turn away for a moment, and when I turn back around, I expect it to be here. Don't make me call your parents.
What they didn't tell you is that in addition to the
Trident, 4 out of 5 dentists also recommend the ancient, deadly
art of dim-mak to their patients who chew gum.
As I walked past the TV, Dr. Phil said "You know, some people just don't know how to mind their own business."
Now this is art.
I can't determine whether I feel Useless or Used-up. But I'll figure it out, or my name isn't Mitch Walker: All-American.
The Cat Man, as seen in photos from San Diego's Comic-Con International.
I'm a MO-ron. For some reason, I used to not care much for guitar & piano together, but while fostering this new slab of noise, I tried backing up the 12-string with echoed piano during the second verse, and it's quite good. I'll have to remember this someday when I go all unplugged.
"Researchers at Harvard University called on aliens from outer space to help them"
You just can't beat an opening sentence this sensational.
I don't typically do politics, but I found this pretty funny.
I ran across the journal of fellow Azrael fan Blinky the TreeFrog, who points out that they've actually included Our Hero in the new DC expansion of the VS card game. After serving as the hated anti-Batman a decade ago, Azrael eventually starred in his own series, which began strong before finally dying a merciful death witnessed only by the most faithful of readers. The lesson learned was that a conflicted assassin who was tortured before birth and brainwashed by a powerful cult to act as their avenging angel of death (but who ultimately finds some degree of freedom from his twisted programming) isn't for everyone, even if he is the coolest character in town.
. . .and you make an excellent point, Senator, but I'd like to get back to what was asked earlier: it's true, I do know Tom Wopat, and he does get quite upset when you try to talk to him about The Dukes of Hazzard, as though he's somehow "above" that now; as if he should be well-known for whatever other (so-called) work he's done. It's all true, except for the part about me knowing him.
After I moved back to Dallas during junior high school, a good friend and I stayed in contact by mail. Once in a letter he sent, he included some lettuce, as a miscellaneous joke. The problem is that I was unaware what it was until he told me - by the time I received it, something had happened. It looked somewhat like a layer of molasses folded in plastic wrap. You could still see what had once been veins, but otherwise, it was unidentifiable. It had no smell, which was fortunate, but also added to the mystery. I guess some sort of decay and fermentation took place while it was in the custody of the United States Postal Service. Lettuce is usually fine until they get a hold of it.
The 411 from my gangsta crew in the hood is that fat-free Catalina is the new Ranch.
President Bush just needs to come out and admit that he's never really studied the classic Cat/Mouse rivalry and Mouse/Dog alliance of the cartoons.
There's some great stuff in this week's News of the Weird column, including sperm races and a rapping congressman's sex musical.
I've updated my songs page, adding the brand new "Peephole", and fixing the previously screwed-up page for "Server". (It scares me that you've been unable to read that one all this time).
Enough fancy word games! Don't try to tell me I have "dog breath" until we've reached an agreement on what exactly "dog breath" is.
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