Whack The Bastard

Umbrella-ella-ella-eh-eh-eh-eh-ella-ella-ella...

2009-01-07T00:21:00.001-07:00

Sweet Talk

2008-12-22T01:14:00.001-07:00

The lyrics:

Lift me up on my honour
Take me over this spell
Get this weight off my shoulders
I've carried it well
Loose these shackles of pressure
Shake me out of these chains
Lead me not to temptation

Hold my hand harder
Ease my mind
Roll down the smoke screen
And open the sky

Let me fly
Man I need a release from
This troublesome mind
Fix my feet when they’re stumbling
And well you know it hurts sometimes
You know it's gonna bleed sometimes

Dig me out from this thorn tree
Help me bury my shame
Keep my eyes from the fire
They can’t handle the flame
Grace cut out from my brothers
When most of them fell
I carry it well

Let me fly
Man I need a release from
This troublesome mind
Fix my feet when they’re stumbling
I guess you know it hurts sometimes
You know it's gonna bleed sometimes

Now hold on
I’m not looking for sweet talk
I’m looking for time
Top a tower and sleep walk
Brother, cause it hurts sometimes
You know it's gonna bleed sometimes
Hold on

You know its gonna hurt sometimes
When you call me
Hold on
Hold on
Hold on

I’m gonna climb that symphony home and make it mine
Let his resonance light my way
See, all these pessimistic sufferers tend to drag me down
So I could use it to shelter what good I’ve found

Dirait-on

2008-12-16T22:27:00.004-07:00

Pensive, at the moment, though that's not such a rare occurrence for me. Contemplation seems to be a double-edged sword. My analysis and consideration of most every minute detail of every situation I face provides me a solid foundation for any decision I might make. Conversely, my over-contemplation can become paralysis, total inaction in a situation where the outcome is entirely without importance. How that relates to anything I'm talking about here, I'm unsure. I started writing this intending to post quotes, poems, and words that often cross my mind. I suppose I ought do that now.

*****************************

HARPER: Night flight to San Francisco. Chase the moon across America. God! It's been years since I was on a plane!

When we hit thirty-five thousand feet, we'll have reached the tropopause. The great belt of calm air. As close as I'll ever get to the ozone.

I dreamed we were there. The plane leapt the tropopause, the safe air, and attained the outer rim, the ozone, which was ragged and torn, patches of it thread-bare as old cheesecloth, and that was frightening...

But I saw something only I could see, because of my astonishing ability to see such things:

Souls were rising, from the earth far below, souls of the dead, of people who had perished, from famine, from war, from the plague, and they floated up, like skydivers in reverse, limbs all akimbo, wheeling and spinning. And the souls of these departed joined hands, clasped ankles and formed a web, a great net of souls, and the souls were three-atom oxygen molecules, of the stuff of ozone, and the outer rim absorbed them, and was repaired.

Nothing's lost forever. In this world, there is a sort of painful progress. Longing for what we've left behind, and dreaming ahead.

At least I think that's so.

*************************

February
Frank O'Hara

The scene is the same,
and though I try to imagine
plinking starry guitars,

and while I spend my
time listening to a foreign
contralto sing the truth,

the earth is everywhere,
brown and aching. At first
it seemed that this life

would be different: born
again in someone else's
arms, after seasons of childhood

and error and defense,
I though freshly and tried
to change the color of my

habit. New metrics would be
mine in this excess of
love! but I was a braggart

to hope so. My old hurts
kept attacking me at odd
moments, after too many

songs, on public conveyances,
in the blue light of bars. Ah!
I cried, do not blame me,

save your temper for the
others! and at the same instant
in the same breath cried,

break me! I dare you, for
which of us am I? you will
break yourself! And this

became only too true, the
worst of all possible vistas,
my lone dark land.

*************************

E.M. You take this too lightly, Miss Bearing. This is Metaphysical Poetry, not The Modern Novel. The standards of scholarship and critical reading which one would apply to any other text are simply insufficient. The effort must be total for the results to be meaningful. Do you think the punctuation of the last line of this sonnet is merely an insignificant detail?

The sonnet beings with a valiant struggle with death, calling on all the forces of intellect and drama to vanquish the enemy. But it is ultimately about overcoming the seemingly imsuperable barriers separating life, death, and eternal life. In the edition you chose, this profoundly simple meaning is sacrificed to hysterical punctuation:

And Death - capital D - shall be no more - semi-colon!
Death - capital D - thou shalt die - exclamation point!

If you go in for this sort of thing, I suggest you take up Shakespeare.
Gardner's edition of the Holy Sonnets returns to the Westmoreland manuscript source of 1610 - not for sentimental reasons, I assure you, but because Helen Gardner is a scholar. It reads:

And death shall be no more, comma, Death thou shalt die.

Nothing but a breath - a comma - separates life from life everlasting. It is very simple really. With the original punctuation restored, death is no longer something to act out on a stage, with exclamation points. It's a comma, a pause.

This way, the uncompromising way, one learns something from this poem, wouldn't you say. Life, death. Soul, God. Not insuperable barriers, not semicolons, just a comma

*************************

I think that's all for now.

Goodnight, Travel Well

2008-12-07T03:14:00.003-07:00

I'm learning this as I go along. I've been trying, for the past several days, to figure out why I should have such extraordinary back pain, unlike anything I've previously experienced. Tonight I may have identified a culprit of the cause. I found out a few days ago that someone I love, more deeply and for reasons more significant than those for which I love anyone else, may have only six months to live. It was a passing comment, barely a mention, and yet its effect has been... well, devastating. Few may read this, and fewer know of whom I'm speaking, but I feel a need to take this knowledge off my own shoulders. I can bear a great deal, but this is too much, even for me.

This person has harmed me, disrespected me, downright hurt me; but I've forgiven him. I've let go of his misdeeds for one reason: I love him. It's taken me a very long time to realize and understand this, but I love him, in spite of it all. I love him because I've had mere glimpses of who he truly is, an amazing man, marvelous beyond telling. I have risked my life to save his. I have gone to hell and back to bring him through. Though I barely have him, I may lose him. And this, more than any of the trials and difficulties I'm now facing, breaks me.

I can say nothing more than this. I have no answers or questions. All I know is what is.

I'm trying to have empathy, but at this moment I feel so blighted by the inevitable, by a future which may well be my own, that it is the greatest strain to reach beyond myself. At this moment I hurt for myself, I hurt for the man, the one man, I have ever truly loved, and I can do nothing.

Love Lockdown

2008-11-12T13:06:00.003-07:00

Finally tonight as promised, a Special Comment on the passage, last week, of Proposition Eight in California, which rescinded the right of same-sex couples to marry, and tilted the balance on this issue, from coast to coast.

Some parameters, as preface. This isn't about yelling, and this isn't about politics, and this isn't really just about Prop-8. And I don't have a personal investment in this: I'm not gay, I had to strain to think of one member of even my very extended family who is, I have no personal stories of close friends or colleagues fighting the prejudice that still pervades their lives.

And yet to me this vote is horrible. Horrible. Because this isn't about yelling, and this isn't about politics. This is about the human heart, and if that sounds corny, so be it.

If you voted for this Proposition or support those who did or the sentiment they expressed, I have some questions, because, truly, I do not understand. Why does this matter to you? What is it to you? In a time of impermanence and fly-by-night relationships, these people over here want the same chance at permanence and happiness that is your option. They don't want to deny you yours. They don't want to take anything away from you. They want what you want—a chance to be a little less alone in the world.

Only now you are saying to them—no. You can't have it on these terms. Maybe something similar. If they behave. If they don't cause too much trouble. You'll even give them all the same legal rights—even as you're taking away the legal right, which they already had. A world around them, still anchored in love and marriage, and you are saying, no, you can't marry. What if somebody passed a law that said you couldn't marry?

I keep hearing this term "re-defining" marriage. If this country hadn't re-defined marriage, black people still couldn't marry white people. Sixteen states had laws on the books which made that illegal in 1967. 1967.

The parents of the President-Elect of the United States couldn't have married in nearly one third of the states of the country their son grew up to lead. But it's worse than that. If this country had not "re-defined" marriage, some black people still couldn't marry black people. It is one of the most overlooked and cruelest parts of our sad story of slavery. Marriages were not legally recognized, if the people were slaves. Since slaves were property, they could not legally be husband and wife, or mother and child. Their marriage vows were different: not "Until Death, Do You Part," but "Until Death or Distance, Do You Part." Marriages among slaves were not legally recognized.

You know, just like marriages today in California are not legally recognized, if the people are gay.

And uncountable in our history are the number of men and women, forced by society into marrying the opposite sex, in sham marriages, or marriages of convenience, or just marriages of not knowing, centuries of men and women who have lived their lives in shame and unhappiness, and who have, through a lie to themselves or others, broken countless other lives, of spouses and children, all because we said a man couldn't marry another man, or a woman couldn't marry another woman. The sanctity of marriage.

How many marriages like that have there been and how on earth do they increase the "sanctity" of marriage rather than render the term, meaningless?

What is this, to you? Nobody is asking you to embrace their expression of love. But don't you, as human beings, have to embrace... that love? The world is barren enough.

It is stacked against love, and against hope, and against those very few and precious emotions that enable us to go forward. Your marriage only stands a 50-50 chance of lasting, no matter how much you feel and how hard you work.

And here are people overjoyed at the prospect of just that chance, and that work, just for the hope of having that feeling. With so much hate in the world, with so much meaningless division, and people pitted against people for no good reason, this is what your religion tells you to do? With your experience of life and this world and all its sadnesses, this is what your conscience tells you to do?

With your knowledge that life, with endless vigor, seems to tilt the playing field on which we all live, in favor of unhappiness and hate... this is what your heart tells you to do? You want to sanctify marriage? You want to honor your God and the universal love you believe he represents? Then Spread happiness—this tiny, symbolic, semantical grain of happiness—share it with all those who seek it. Quote me anything from your religious leader or book of choice telling you to stand against this. And then tell me how you can believe both that statement and another statement, another one which reads only "do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

You are asked now, by your country, and perhaps by your creator, to stand on one side or another. You are asked now to stand, not on a question of politics, not on a question of religion, not on a question of gay or straight. You are asked now to stand, on a question of love. All you need do is stand, and let the tiny ember of love meet its own fate.

You don't have to help it, you don't have it applaud it, you don't have to fight for it. Just don't put it out. Just don't extinguish it. Because while it may at first look like that love is between two people you don't know and you don't understand and maybe you don't even want to know. It is, in fact, the ember of your love, for your fellow person just because this is the only world we have. And the other guy counts, too.

This is the second time in ten days I find myself concluding by turning to, of all things, the closing plea for mercy by Clarence Darrow in a murder trial.

But what he said, fits what is really at the heart of this:

"I was reading last night of the aspiration of the old Persian poet, Omar-Khayyam," he told the judge. It appealed to me as the highest that I can vision. I wish it was in my heart, and I wish it was in the hearts of all: So I be written in the Book of Love; I do not care about that Book above. Erase my name, or write it as you will, So I be written in the Book of Love."

Are we human, or are we denser?

2008-10-10T20:10:00.003-06:00

I've never felt a particular need to get married. Having constant company sounds nice, but I don't necessarily need marriage, civil or otherwise, to ratify the relationship. Now, though, that I see so many people I grew up with, people that always seemed friendly, inquisitive, and intelligent, are opposed to same-sex civil marriage, I think I'll get married out of spite.

That's right. I'm going to find the biggest, most brash and abrasive, loud and obnoxious, camped-up stereotype of a tranny drag queen and marry him/her. Just to spite you. Don't believe I wouldn't do it? You don't know me very well. A though I've lately been fond of quoting: If you don't like me, I'm going to make you HATE me.

Realize this, please, as it is fundamental: There is a distinct difference between civil marriage and religious marriage. I have no desire whatsoever to have my marriage blessed by ANY authority, much less one that claims its founder was perfectly justified in molesting little girls. I don't need some stupid temple or cathedral over my head. I don't even need a courthouse; but so long as I am a citizen of this country, and so long as any man and woman can be granted rights simply by signing a form and paying ten lousy dollars, then so should I and any other man, whether he be a hot tranny mess or the love of my life.

In other words, provided one's choices do not DIRECTLY harm another person or violate his rights, one is free to make that choice. This is called equal protection; it is a central concept in the constitution, has been so since its ratification, and was reiterated in 1868 (That's the 14th Amendment, y'all). The framers of the Constitution sought, as Justice Brandeis said in 1928, "to protect Americans in their beliefs, their thoughts, their emotions, and their sensations." It is for this reason that they established, as against the government, the right to be let alone as "the most comprehensive of rights and the right most valued by civilized men." Essentially, leave me alone to see my life as I see fit. Realize, though, that if there is any right or responsibility granted a citizen, it is for ALL citizens. If you want to call it marriage, call it marriage, but it must be for everyone. If you want to call it civil union, or domestic partnership, or friends with benefits, I don't care. Just make it the same damn institution for me as for you as for anyone and everyone.

The Reason

2008-07-31T02:54:00.001-06:00

Earlier tonight I felt bored. Not by anything in particular, just a general sense of boredom. I decided, then, to go to Double Daughters, hang out, write, be bored a place other than my apartment. I ran into friends, had several drinks, some great conversation. A good time overall. I love living downtown. :-)

Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed

2008-07-23T02:24:00.004-06:00

Crazy Creepy Cult Leader Warren Jeffs
Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz

I'm just sayin' is all.

Continued, to a degree...

2008-07-12T18:43:00.001-06:00

On the bus, yet again, headed to work. Some woman is shouting at the driver, something about the frequency of this buses on Saturday. Her hair is carrying on a polyamorous affair with peroxide and Aquanet. I shudder to think of the day they turn on one another. I intended to write about 'Atlas Shrugged' but am too distracted by the people surrounding me. The woman dressed like a polygamist prostitute daintily eating Doritos, sucking the salt from her fingers decorated with luminous fuschia polish; the man in the black leather pants and mesh-fabric shirt, wallet again dangling from his left pocket, picking his nose; the dazed man wearing worn jeans and a new t-shirt clasping a paperback romance novel to his chest; the younger man with fading tear-drop tattoo wearing his tank top inside out, perhaps to show off the Fruit of the Loom label, cigarette tucked behind his ear; the drunk couple, staggering, carrying take-away Mexican food in cracked plastic boxes. Just another day.

Just You Wait, Henry Higgins

2008-07-11T17:57:00.001-06:00

I finished 'Atlas Shrugged' a few minutes past seven this morning. I'd promised myself before beginning I'd read the entirety of John Galt's sixty-page speech (sixty LARGE pages of miniscule type) in a single sitting. I'd neglected to notice the conclusion of the speech was a mere hundred pages from the end of the book. I couldn't resist. I'm not an Objectivist, not by Ayn Rand's stringent standards anyway, but... perhaps I approached that poorly. I've never withheld my assent from well-constructed logic. The logic in 'Atlas Shrugged' is near-flawless. I'll have to continue this later. I'm on the bus at the moment and am near my stop. Briefly, yay this book. Me gusta.

Oh, Lately It's So Quiet

2008-06-22T15:58:00.003-06:00

I find myself quite vexed at the moment. Not by anything of particular note or substance, but something minor, something that bothered me nonetheless. I've made plenty of mistakes in my life, though to a lesser extent of late. Those mistakes have often had an unfortunate effect on others. I ran into one such person today and some of this person's friends. And while he was perfectly genial, his friends barely acknowledged my existence. Barely. Even that is being generous. I know I should react with perfect indifference to this; I think to myself, "It's their problem, not mine." I was once on good terms with them, in fact grew somewhat close to them. Now I'm persona non grata even though my actions did not affect them in any meaningful way. And this bothers me. It doesn't anger me, or offend me. I feel... well, sad. Disappointed in myself all over again for the mistake I made long ago. Consequently, I'm annoyed with myself for feeling this way. I've rectified the mistake, atoned for it, and am a better person because of it. Why should I feel the slightest bit of disappointment?

You see? Vexing.

As it is.

My Boo

2008-06-02T00:13:00.001-06:00

Do vaginas smell like celery? I have a theory.

Blood on the Dancefloor, or: I fucking hate FOX News and the retards who watch and believe what it says

2008-01-08T12:09:00.000-07:00

The Line Begins to Blur

2007-07-08T02:47:00.000-06:00

I'm gifted in a way that seems like a monstrous joke. This gift, this ability, entails my going on one date, perhaps two, getting along rather well with whomever the fella may be, then not hearing from him again. My rabid curiosity consumes me in this, as in all matters, and I eventually talk myself into calling Mr. Man, usually a month or two later, and finding out just why the hell he didn't call me. The joke is this: always, always, always, Mr. Man has rekindled romance with a nameless ex and was too embarrassed/ashamed/inarticulate to tell me. I'm some sort of cracked-out matchmaker, someone of a caliber (good or bad) that rouse within others an overwhelming desire for the comfort of familiarity.

Huh?

Methinks I smell a monstrous pile of bullshit. Or a very fishy vagina. Either way it stinks.

When I ask a question I expect and crave only one thing: the truth. A little bit of honesty, with me, goes a long way. I don't give two shits if the real reason is deeply personal and might hurt my feelings; I'm a big boy, I've dealt with plenty of shit, and have more or less come to accept shit as a part of my life. Seriously, pile it on, I can handle it.

My only fault in situations as I've just described is that I have a hard time exerting energy where it clearly will make no difference, so instead of speaking my mind and saying, "Hey! Fuck you!!" I say something along the lines of "No worries," and let sleeping dogs lie.

If anyone reads this, knows he has at some point qualified as "Mr. Man", and is curious as to how I truly felt, take to heart what I've written. And to drive the point home... Hey! Fuck you! Come back to me when you've sprouted balls big enough to enable you to be honest. Hearing this excuse once, maybe twice, I can buy it. But the seeming scores of times it's been fed to me... well, I may be a hopeless romantic at times, but I'm never a complete idiot.

Just Missed the Train

2007-06-30T01:40:00.000-06:00

I saw tonight a marquee board at a nearby Lutheran church bearing the following message:

The United States of America is the only country in the world with a known birthday.

Huh.

I'll bet the people of East Timor might take issue with that.

Come to think of it, the "birthday" of the United States isn't as clear cut as all that. Is it July 4, 1776? Or is it November 15, 1777, the date of the ratification of the Articles of Confederation? Perhaps September 17, 1787, at the adoption of the Constitution? Or June 21, 1788, the day New Hampshire became the ninth state to ratify it, thereby ratifying it altogether? Or perhaps even March 4, 1789, when the Government formally began operations under the Constitution?

Granted, the Declaration of Independence was the first instance the colonies were referred to as a contiguous body; however, it wasn't until the drafting of the Constitution that it was considered a single sovereign nation, rather than an allied body of several independent states. Perhaps some clarification is in order for those who posted the aforementioned message on the marquee.

Or perhaps I shouldn't put so much thought into something I read while driving down South Broadway at 9:30 p.m.

"...Fuck Yeah!"

2007-06-13T01:36:00.001-06:00

Your Inner European is Spanish!

Energetic and lively.

You bring the party with you!

Who's Your Inner European?

Listen

2007-04-14T13:10:00.000-06:00

So, yes. That last post (the one I just deleted because its lack of respect for frames and margins pissed me off) was half-assed tomfoolery. And so is this. But it's lovely and makes me all warm inside. Please read, contemplate, and pass along.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: John didn't write this cleverness. John does not consider himself an artist. He's too lazy and distracted to create anything that could be termed 'art'. The sentiment of the piece, however, remains. In fact, John would have thrown in a tad bit more vitriol to spice things up. You know. Bam.)

To all of you silly, sad caffeine addicts who line up like lemmings for your overpriced lattes every morning: there are some things you should know.

1. We are not your friends. We are usually not your neighbors. In most cases, we absolutely loathe you, but we are outwardly friendly -- because we are paid to do so. You are not getting special treatment, and we really don’t give a shit about your last vacation or your new baby or your real estate problems. We ask how you’re doing because it’s a way of making conversation, and we are pressured to make conversation in this line of work. Now, there are some customers who are genuinely liked, but they’re few and far between. If you have to think about it, you’re probably not one of them.

2. Oh, you work from home? We are not your water-cooler break. We may be the only humans you have interacted with for days, but do not expect us to be interested in your stupid home business or your racist, sexist, totally unfunny commentary. Get your drink and get out.

3. Enough with repeating the George Carlin Starbucks order joke! It was funny the first time we heard it. Maybe. You are probably the four hundredth person to say it to me, expecting me to laugh, and I guarantee that you’re going to be disappointed.

4. Tipping is greatly appreciated. While Starbucks does provide great insurance and other benefits for its employees, and sometimes even a decent hourly wage, baristas are not guaranteed a certain amount of hours per week and NEVER get full-time hours. So: we have great health coverage but can barely buy groceries. Our tips help augment our meager paychecks. If you don’t want to tip, don’t - but quit bitching about it. I’ve noticed that the complexity of your drink order is quite often inversely proportionate to the size of your tip. The rudest and most difficult customers NEVER tip - usually the stay-at-home-moms wearing fifty grand worth of diamonds, yammering into their trendy pink KRAZRs and paying absolutely no attention to their horrible offspring (who are wreaking havoc in every way possible.) Bitches.

5. SKIM MILK is the same as NONFAT MILK. Do not order a “skim nonfat latte” – it’s redundant. Similarly, don’t say that you want a “grande skim latte” and then correct me when I call out “grande nonfat latte.” You bitch. Which brings me to:

6. We are trained to call out drink orders in a particular way. This helps to ensure that we get all of your stupid, nitpicky details correct. DO NOT
• Correct me (see above)
• Tell me as snottily as possible that you “don’t speak Starbucks.” That is quite possibly one of the dumbest statements I’ve ever heard.
• Keep asking me, “Is it decaf? Did you get that? I ordered decaf. Are you sure it’s decaf?” FUCK YOU. Yes, I got it.
• Tell me how to make a drink. I know what goes into a mocha. You probably couldn’t make one if someone had a gun to your head.

I may as well continue! DON’T:
• Lean on the hand-off counter, effectively blocking any of the people who ordered BEFORE you from getting their coffee.
• Take your drink, rip the top off, gulp down one-third to one-half of it, and then ask me to “top it off.”
• Snatch the first drink to come up, because of course it's yours! You’re the only fucking customer in the place! You ordered a grande latte and this is a Frappuccino, what does it matter! You got there first!
• Scream at me because you don't want whipped cream, when you never specified that.
• Get all pissy when I ask if you want whipped cream on a nonfat mocha. Because some people do, the drink usually comes with it, and we are here to serve your demanding ass.
• Come in wearing a floor-length fur coat and, when asked if you need a bag for your purchase, say no because you want to “save some trees.” Please save me the forehead bruise.
• Hold your two-year-old up to the pastry case and ask him to choose something. Grown men (well, stupid grown men) are struck dumb by the variety at times; no toddler will be able to work out what he wants in under three days. Select something for him and move on.

7. If you are yapping away on your cell phone when you get up to the counter, TELL THE PERSON ON THE OTHER END TO HOLD ON. Do not try to communicate what you want by hand gestures. Do not stare at me blankly – YOU approached ME. Especially, do not roll your eyes at me and heave a sigh before bitchily telling me what you want while still babbling into the phone.

8. If we’re out of the sippy-cup lids and have to give you a regular old flat lid with a tear tab (this occasionally happens) – do not freak out and scream at the manager that it will spill and ruin your “very expensive car.” Buddy, I’ve seen that car (you double-park it outside the front door almost every fucking day) and it’s not all that, so get off your fucking high horse. And if you have enough money for that pricey auto, either buy a decent travel mug with a locking lid, or get the fucking car detailed if something spills. And maybe lay off the caffeine. Asshole.

9. If you order a Frappuccino, I will hate you even more.

10. Quit bitching about the names of everything. Yes, there is a “tall" size. No, it’s not the smallest size – that would be the “short.” Somewhere along the line, it got dropped from the menu, but can still be ordered. It doesn’t make much sense to me either, but I didn’t come up with the nomenclature for this shit. Order by the names on the menu, because I’ve had people ask for a "medium coffee" and get inexplicably pissed off when I give them a grande. Which is a medium coffee. If you eat at McDonald’s, you put a “Mc” in front of just about everything – get the fuck over yourself and get used to it.

11. Keep your fucking $1200, four-foot-wide Bugaboo stroller out. Of. The. Store.

12. If you are one of the seriously annoying, mind-bogglingly stupid Change People, it's very likely that I'm restraining the urge to beat you senseless. Especially if you say something like, "I have twenty-four cents, if it helps…" – you are not helping anyone. Fuck you and your exact change. Don’t giggle and tell me how heavy it's making your bag and that you need to get rid of it. How about this: remove your spare change from your bag or pockets daily. Throw it in a change jar. When the jar fills up, cash it in. So simple, anyone can do it!

13. When you order "three shots of espresso, over ice, in a venti cup, extra ice" – WE KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING. You’re stealing, because you pay a lot less for that than you would for a latte, and then you fill it to the brim with milk from the condiment bar pitchers. You probably eat at buffets all the time and surreptitiously stuff your shoulder bag full of food, too. It’s a hard lesson to learn, but you really should learn it: if you can’t afford something, don’t fucking buy it. Asshole.

14. Just because I work at Starbucks doesn’t mean I’m stupid. If I had a penny for everyone who treated me like a complete idiot because I work in the service industry, I’d be a retired billionaire by now. I probably scored higher than you did on standardized tests, am better-read, better-educated, a better writer, more articulate, more interesting, more observant, and better-traveled. However, because I am an artist (as are many of my co-workers) I don’t make the kind of money that the lawyers, doctors, and CEOs of the world do; this does not, however, make me a second-class citizen. So stop fucking treating me (and everyone else who works at Starbucks) like one.

15. Have a nice fucking day, you bastards!

P.S. - As to the bitch who took issue with the following quote, found on a Starbucks cup...

"Why in moments of crisis do we ask God for strength and help? As cognitive beings, why would we ask something that may well be a figment of our imaginations for guidance? Why not search inside ourselves for the power to overcome? After all, we are strong enough to cause most of the catastrophes we need to endure."

Fuck you, sperm-burping gutter slut! It's true!

Don't Cry Out Loud

2007-02-25T23:47:00.000-07:00

Wowser. Been awhile, yeah? I'm in something of a pissy mood. A pissy mood that has persisted, with the occasional exception, since my last post. There were wonderful piss-free moments (the November Congressional Elections notable among them) but by and large life has been an obnoxious and disappointing bitch. The kind of bitch that comes in to my shop, is loud, irritating, but ultimately so vapid and devoid of even the slightest shred of wit that I don't even feel like wasting energy on insulting her. I just give her decaf and send her on her way. Yeah. Life's been like that.

Chief on my mind, at the moment, that is, is that I despise being single. Possibly I'm co-dependent but I'm uncertain if this is a good or bad thing. It's not that I'm trying to kill myself, or sitting, watching soap operas, eating gobs of frosting, and crying bitterly inward my silent tears. Not by a long stretch. I simply am wanting someone with whom I can be honest and intimate, with whom there is mutual attraction on every level, or at least physical and intellectual. And emotional. I don't care if he's a bible-thumpin' Jesus freak, as long as he's somewhat liberal, bears an ounce of intelligence, and has engaged in some physical activity to avoid morbid obesity. And no crazies. I've had my fill of them over thet last year and a half and am not exactly pleasantly reminiscing on the experience. The men I've encountered lately are, generally speaking, wonderful guys but all seem to have some stupid flaw that precludes them from... well, from being someone I want to be with. One is too douchey to think I would actually want to talk to him after not hearing from him for a few weeks (I'm not that huge a prick), one is a recovering drug addict (not horrible, but still too close to just such an experience that I'm in no mood to be anywhere near it), and one is a Zionist.

Well, that one was a lie. But seriously. If I found out Mr. Right was a Zionist, he'd get his bitch-ass kicked to the curb. As it is.

Stupid boys.

Work is.... alright. I'm getting bored with aspects of it, and that's never good. I need to be promoted or transferred and soon. Otherwise I'll feel the need to start doing wacky things to mix it up a bit and end up getting fired because of it. I learned that at one job. I'm not allowed within 100 yards of any nuns for the next four years. Anyhow. I'm on a "Final Corrective Action" at work for publicly, and loudly, chiding my store manager for telling me to do something inefficient and stupid. So until that little blip is off my record, sometime in April, I'm pretty much stuck where I am. I just want to make $32,000 a year. Not fantastic, but more than I've ever made and not bad for someone with half a state college education. Blah.

I'm likely moving in with my parents when my lease is up. For six months, at most, but still. I truly don't HAVE to move in with them, but it would be terribly helpful in resolving some financial difficulties I've encountered largely due to help I gave to a certain crazy, recovering drug-addict, ex-boyfriend. Still. I don't relish it.

I'm turning into Crazy Britney, too. I shaved my head, apparently the day after she did. I don't watch television, so I had no idea. Then last night I up and got a tattoo. Yup. One I hadn't planned. On my left wrist. It hurt like a motherfucking fist up my ass. Ouch. I actually passed out and peed myself. Just a little. And that's not a joke. I literally peed myself a little bit. Apparently it happens quite a bit. I actually managed to stop myself before completely emptying my bladder, unlike most people who do it. Anyhow. I think I like the tattoo. It's not terribly prominent, it's very simple. Yeah. Anyhow.

I hate blue laws. I want to go to Argonaut, load up on Newcastle and trash myself. Oh well.

Perhaps I've broken out of my blog-slump. More to come, I'm sure. Love to all.

Oops, I Did it Again

2006-10-01T23:33:00.000-06:00

You Belong in Paris

You enjoy all that life has to offer, and you can appreciate the fine tastes and sites of Paris.
You're the perfect person to wander the streets of Paris aimlessly, enjoying architecture and a crepe.

What European City Do You Belong In?

Your Hidden Talent

You have the power to persuade and influence others.
You're the type of person who can turn a whole room around.
The potential for great leadership is there, as long as you don't abuse it.
Always remember, you have a lot more power over people than you might think!

What's Your Hidden Talent?

You've Changed 52% in 10 Years

You've done a good job changing with the times, but deep down, you're still the same person.
You're clothes, job, and friends may have changed some - but it hasn't changed you.

How Much Have You Changed in 10 Years?

You Are 12% Capitalist, 88% Socialist

You see a lot of injustice in the world, and you'd like to see it fixed.
As far as you're concerned, all the wrong people have the power.
You're strongly in favor of the redistribution of wealth - and more protection for the average person.

Are You a Socialist or Capitalist?

You May Be a Bit Borderline...

Your mood swings make a roller coaster look tame!
When you're up, you're a little bit crazy...
And when you're down, your whole world is crashing
Scary thing is, these moods can change by the minute!

What Personality Disorder Are You?

You Should Get a PhD in Liberal Arts (like political science, literature, or philosophy)

You're a great thinker and a true philosopher.
You'd make a talented professor or writer.

What Advanced Degree Should You Get?

You Are 100% Psychic

You are so very psychic.
But you already predicted that, didn't you?
You have "the gift" - and you use it daily to connect with others.
You're very tapped into the world around you...
Just make sure to use your powers for good.

Are You Psychic?

The Movie Of Your Life Is An Indie Flick

You do things your own way - and it's made for colorful times.
Your life hasn't turned out how anyone expected, thank goodness!
Your best movie matches: Clerks, Garden State, Napoleon Dynamite

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?

Are You Gonna Be My Girl by Jet

"So 1, 2, 3, take my hand and come with me
Because you look so fine
And i really wanna make you mine"

You impressed almost everyone in 2004 - and surprised yourself.

What 2004 Hit Song Are You?

You are 47% Libra

How Libra Are You?

You Should Be a Painter

You have the vision, patience, and skill to bring your unique visions to canvas.
And you're even tempered enough not to cut your ear off in the process!

What Sort of Artist Should You Be?

Your EQ is 120

50 or less: Thanks for answering honestly. Now get yourself a shrink, quick!
51-70: When it comes to understanding human emotions, you'd have better luck understanding Chinese.
71-90: You've got more emotional intelligence than the average frat boy. Barely.
91-110: You're average. It's easy to predict how you'll react to things. But anyone could have guessed that.
111-130: You usually have it going on emotionally, but roadblocks tend to land you on your butt.
131-150: You are remarkable when it comes to relating with others. Only the biggest losers get under your skin.
150+: Two possibilities - you've either out "Dr. Phil-ed" Dr. Phil... or you're a dirty liar.

What's Your EQ (Emotional Intelligence Quotient)?

You Are Best Described By...

Girl With Hair Ribbon
by Roy Lichtenstein

What Famous Work of Art Are You?

Slow and Steady

Your friends see you as painstaking and fussy.
They see you as very cautious, extremely careful, a slow and steady plodder.
It'd really surprise them if you ever did something impulsively or on the spur of the moment.
They expect you to examine everything carefully from every angle and then usually decide against it.

How Do People See You?

Your Scholastic Strength Is Deep Thinking

You aren't afraid to delve head first into a difficult subject, with mastery as your goal.
You are talented at adapting, motivating others, managing resources, and analyzing risk.
You should major in: Philosophy, Music, Theology, Art, History, Foreign language

What Should You Major In?

Your 2005 Song Is

Beverly Hills by Weezer
"My automobile is a piece of crap
My fashion sense is a little whack
And my friends are just as screwy as me"

You breezed through 2005 in your own funky style!

What Hit Song of 2005 Are You?

Your Personality Is Like Acid

A bit wacky, you're very difficult to predict.
One moment you're in your own little happy universe...
And the next, you're on a bad trip to your own personal hell!

What Drug Is Your Personality Like?

Your True Birth Month Is June

Fussy
Abiding
Friendly
Stubborn
Talkative
Sensitive
Executive
Hesitating
Easily hurt
Active mind
Easily bored
Daydreamer
Loves to joke
Tends to delay
Temperamental
Brand conscious
Loves to dress up
Having lots of ideas
Good debating skills
Funny and humorous
Thinks far with vision
Prone to getting colds
Polite and soft-spoken
Able to show character
Seldom show emotions
Knows how to make friends
Easily influenced by kindness
Takes time to recover when hurt
Choosy and always wants the bes
Those who love me are enemies; Those who hate me are friends

What's Your True Birth Month?

Your Life Is Worth...

$1,021,500

How Much Is Your Life Worth?

You Are 52% Shy

Although you live a pretty normal life, you tend to be a fairly shy person.
Many situations make you feel uncomfortable, and you sometimes find your shyness hindering your life.

How Shy Are You?

You Should Rule Saturn

Saturn is a mysterious planet that can rarely be seen with the naked eye.
You are perfect to rule Saturn because like its rings, you don't always follow the rules of nature.
And like Saturn, to really be able to understand you, someone delve beyond your appearance.
You are not an easy person to befriend. However, once you enter a friendship, you'll be a friend for life.
You think slowly but deeply. You only gain great understanding after a situation has past.

What Planet Should You Rule?

Your Rising Sign is Leo

You are confident, self-assured, and more than a little vain.
And you have a flair for the dramatic - whether you're on stage or causing trouble.
Your spirit can't stay in one place very long.
You like to live in new places and travel the world.
Cultured and sophisticated, you pride yourself on having good taste.
You are an expert in art, music, food, and film.

What's Your Rising Sign?

You Are Austin

A little bit country, a little bit rock and roll.
You're totally weird and very proud of it.
Artistic and freaky, you still seem to fit in... in your own strange way.
Famous Austin residents: Lance Armstrong, Sandra Bullock, Andy Roddick

What American City Are You?

You are

What Rejected Crayon Are You?

Your Seduction Style: Prized Object

The seduction game you play is tried, true, and still effective: hard to get.
You know that the best seducers turn the tables - and get their crush to seduce them.
The one running has the power, and you're a challenge that is worth the chase.

You are a master of enticing and pulling back. Giving a little and taking some away.
You are controlled enough to know rewards come after a long seduction dance.
Even though you want to call, email, or say "I love you" first - you don't!

You're style is the perfect mix of hot and cold - so much so that you have many suitors.
Think Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany's ... or any of those creepy guys from the Bachelor.
You're skilled at inspiring a chase. The real test is picking the person to slow down for.

What Kind of Seducer Are You?

Your Deadly Sins

Sloth: 80%

Envy: 60%

Greed: 60%

Lust: 40%

Pride: 40%

Wrath: 20%

Gluttony: 0%

Chance You'll Go to Hell: 43%

You will die while sleeping - and no one will notice.

How Sinful Are You?

You Are 69% Indie

You're a very indie person, and admit it, you look down a little on people who strive to be normal.
You'll indulge in a little mainstream pop culture every now and then. But for you, anything not indie is a guilty pleasure!

How Indie Are You?

You Are Somewhat Honest

You do tend to tell the truth a lot
But you also stretch the truth on occasion
You figure a little lie isn't a big deal
As long as it doesn't hurt anyone too much!

How Honest Are You?

You Are Guinness

You know beer well, and you'll only drink the best beers in the world.
Watered down beers disgust you, as do the people who drink them.
When you drink, you tend to become a bit of a know it all - especially about subjects you don't know well.
But your friends tolerate your drunken ways, because you introduce them to the best beers around.

What's Your Beer Personality?

You Are a New School Democrat

You like partying and politics - and are likely to be young and affluent.
You're less religious, traditional, and uptight than most Democrats.
Smoking pot, homosexuality, and gambling are all okay in your book.
You prefer that the government help people take care of themselves.

What's Your Political Persuasion?

Your Famous Last Words Will Be:

"Goodbye. I am leaving because I am bored."

What Will Your Famous Last Words Be?

You Are 60% Brutally Honest

Honesty is important to you, but generally, you try not to be brutal about it.
You'll sugar coat the truth when you need to... and tell a white lie when necessary.

How Brutally Honest Are You?

Your Personality Cluster is Introverted Intuition

You are:
Multilayered and complex
Inspired and driven to achieve your goals
A visionary with a complete life plan
Intuitive enough to understand difficult problems, ideas, and people

What's Your Personality Cluster?

Your Aura is Violet

Idealistic and thoughtful, you have the mind and ideas to change the world.
And you have the charisma of a great leader, even if you don't always use it!
The purpose of your life: saying truths that other people dare not say
Famous purples include: Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., Susan B. Anthony
Careers for you to try: Political Activist, Inventor, Life Coach

What Color Is Your Aura?

You Are 50% Feminine, 50% Masculine

You are in touch with both your feminine and masculine sides.
You're sensitive at the right times, but you don't let your emotions overwhelm you.
You're not a eunuch, just the best of both genders.

Are You Masculine or Feminine?

Your Inner European is Italian!

Passionate and colorful.
You show the world what culture really is.

Who's Your Inner European?

American Cities That Best Fit You:

70% Los Angeles

70% San Francisco

65% Washington, DC

60% Chicago

60% Philadelphia

Which American Cities Best Fit You?

You Are Most Like Richard Nixon

Oh sure, you give people plenty of reasons to call you "Tricky Dick."
But you're actually quite diplomatic, even though you secretly hate your enemies.

What Modern US President Are You Most Like?

You Are Kermit

Hi, ho! Lovable and friendly, you get along well with everyone you know.
You're a big thinker, and sometimes you over think life's problems.
Don't worry - everyone know's it's not easy being green.
Just remember, time's fun when you're having flies!

The Muppet Personality Test

You Will Die at Age 52

Not bad, considering your super wild lifestyle
Want to live longer? Try losing a few bad habits.

What Age Will You Die?

You are a Self-Discoverer

You're not religious, but you've created your own kind of spirituality.
Introspective and thoughtful, you tend to look inward for the divine.
You are distrusting of all forms of organized religion.
You especially dislike religious gurus and leaders, who you feel are charlatans.

What's Your Religious Philosophy?

You Are French Food

Snobby yet ubiquitous.
People act like they understand you more than they actually do.

What Kind of Food Are You?

You Are a Dreaming Soul

Your vivid emotions and imagination takes you away from this world
So much so that you tend to live in your head most of the time
You have great dreams and ambitions that could be the envy of all...
But for you, following through with your dreams is a bit difficult

You are charming, endearing, and people tend to love you.
Forgiving and tolerant, you see the world through rose colored glasses.
Underneath it all, you have a ton of passion that you hide from others.
Always hopeful, you tend to expect positive outcomes in your life.

Souls you are most compatible with: Newborn Soul, Prophet Soul, and Traveler Soul

What Kind of Soul Are You?

Your Brain's Pattern

Your brain is always looking for the connections in life.
You always amaze your friends by figuring out things first.
You're also good at connecting people - and often play match maker.
You see the world in fluid, flexible terms. Nothing is black or white.

What Pattern Is Your Brain?

You Are the Very Gay Peppermint Patty!

Softball is the huge tipoff here...
As well as a "best friend" who loves to call her "sir"

What Gay Childhood Icon Are You?

Your Bumper Sticker Should Be

If you don't like my driving - stay off the sidewalk

What Bumper Sticker Should Be On Your Car?

You Are 44% Sociopath

You're not a sociopath, but you're very prone to antisocial behavior.
Other people's opinions matter little to you. You live your own fringe life - for better or worse.

Are You A Sociopath?

Your 2006 Summer Anthem Is

Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield

"No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins"

What's Your 2006 Summer Anthem?

You Belong in 1971

If you scored...
1950 - 1959: You're fun loving, romantic, and more than a little innocent. See you at the drive in!
1960 - 1969: You are a free spirit with a huge heart. Love, peace, and happiness rule - oh, and drugs too.
1970 - 1979: Bold and brash, you take life by the horns. Whether you're partying or protesting, you give it your all!
1980 - 1989: Wild, over the top, and just a little bit cheesy. You're colorful at night - and successful during the day.
1990 - 1999: With you anything goes! You're grunge one day, ghetto fabulous the next. It's all good!

What Year Do You Belong In?

How You Life Your Life

You seem to be straight forward, but you keep a lot inside.
You're laid back and chill, but sometimes you care too much about what others think.
You prefer a variety of friends and tend to change friends quickly.
You tend to dream big, but you worry that your dreams aren't attainable.

How Do You Live Your Life?

You Are An INTJ

The Scientist
You have a head for ideas - and you are good at improving systems.
Logical and strategic, you prefer for everything in your life to be organized.
You tend to be a bit skeptical. You're both critical of yourself and of others.
Independent and stubborn, you tend to only befriend those who are a lot like you.
You would make an excellent scientist, engineer, or programmer.

What's Your Personality Type?

Your Love Style is Agape

You are a caring, kind, and selfless partner.
Unsurprisingly, your love style is the most rare.
You are willing to sacrfice your world for your sweetie.
Except it doesn't really feel like sacrifice to you.
For you, nothing feels better than giving to the one you love.

What's Your Love Style?

"I can't decide whether you should live or die..."

2006-09-28T23:00:00.001-06:00

Ain't I a stinker. I have no idea if I've phrased or punctuated that statement correctly. Or what it means. It was the first thing that popped into my head. Actually, the first thing that popped into my head was "aren't I a stinker?" but then I realized the character in the Looney Toons cartoons who uttered the phrase said "ain't" not "aren't". So yeah. Thought process. Stunning, isn't it? Or ain't it. Whatever.

So so so. Thank to all those I badgered and shook down and blew off for AIDS Walk donations. After Starbucks' matching funds I raised something in the way of $300 (I haven't actually checked the amount so don't bitch if I'm wrong.) In any case, thank you. To those of you who didn't donate, shame on you. You should be shot in the face. By the way, I didn't blow off anyone for donations. This cold sore I have is just a coincidence.

I'm 23 now. Yup. 23. Yesterday was my birthday. Blah. No work or school. Went to a Rockies game. That was cool for several reasons, but mainly because of the conversations taking place around usx. The girls behind us were about as vapid as a limp helium balloon; one of the fellas in front of us was retarded drunk - mind you, I'm not using retarded as an adjective to describe his state of drunkeness. I think there was serious mental deficiency. He kept shouting 'LET'S go, PADres!" We were playing the Dodgers - and some crazy man far to our right was shouting unintelligible shit at the players and actually calmed down as drank his beer. One of the concessionists looked and sounded like Squiggy from 'LaVerne and Shirley'. My mom asked if one needed to be mentally defective to work at Coors Field. I told her about the woman who comes in to my Starbucks wearing a bike helmet - as in wearing it ALL THE TIME - and once ordered a 96 ounce coffee traveler and consumed it by herself, then ordered a concoction that was half iced coffee, half lemonade. Anyway. God love Coors Field. Only one good looking player on the team, and I suspect he, too, is mentally defective. At past games his theme music (there's probably a specific name for it, but I don't give half a shit) was 'Holiday' by Green Day. A fantastic song. This time around it was some bullcrap by Creed about how God has given meaning to Scott Stapp. Fucker. I remarked that I'm glad God gave him such guidance as to lead him to cheat on his fiancee and throw an Orgy with Kid Rock. I capitalize Orgy because I doubt there was any degree of spontaneity in the matter and that Scotty and Robby (Kid Rock's real name is Robert Ritchie) probably printed up little invitations on embossed stationary and handed them out to all the tranny hookers in WeHo. So good for them. Point being, this Rockies player, Matt Holliday, is probably retarded because he probably is the one who changed the music. And given the nature of the change he's probably a born-again Christian. Which means he's retarded. Seriously.

That's not fair. I do know some perfectly lovely born-again Christian, but he strikes me as being a total prick. In the vein of Katherine Harris, but with bigger balls. And we all know Representative Harris has a pair of brass ones. As I understand it, the atomic clock is set to the revolutions of her testicles.

Good Lord. I am digressing to an alarming extent.

The new Scissor Sisters album, 'Ta-Dah!', is absolutely fantastic. Give it a shot. Elton John co-wrote some of the tracks.

Back to me. Apparently I'm straight. For serious. Anyone who knows me would giggle inappropriately and incessantly at the notion, given my notorious disdain for vag (pronounced 'vadge' like 'badge' or 'Madge', but whomever would name their child Madge is someone who deserves to be shot in the face.) Anyhow, the thing is, there's a fella what came in to my Starbucks, sat for a few hours, making total eyes me. He was pretty darn good looking, though not in the typical way, but in the way I quite like, so I start making eyes back. After those few hours he finally came up to me and asked if he could give me his number. I was delighted and, as the cool kids say, "got his digits". What a retarded phrase. Damn fucking trendy MTV bullshit. So, we spoke on the phone tonight, and it came out over the course of our conversation that he would have asked me much sooner but that he thought I was straight. A few hours of eye-sexing didn't convince this guy I was a total 'mo. Oh no. He actually had to be told by another barista, one cleaning the lobby, that yes, indeed, I dig the cock.

Point is, it's difficult enough being out and about at bars and such to find decent guys - most of them are horribly skeezy, slutty, and infested with things worse than a two-penny whore probably has. To know unequivocally that every man, unless he has gaydar as finely tuned as mine - which, we must admit, is simply impossible - will think I'm straight and more likely than not forego even attempting to talk to me. I might have to carry around my own little Chatty Kathy Starbucks Barista Doll to get all up in other dudes' biz-naz and tell them to hit on me, because Lord knows I'm too shy to do it myself. If I were to queer myself up to make myself more obvious - say some bright makeup, tight midriff t-shirts, and shorts that look like emaciated maxi pads - I'd started attracting the type of guy I'm not interested in, namely straight, rape-minded, University of Colorado football players. Even then I'd have to be passed out in a pool of my own vomit for them to be attracted. Or so I read.

Oh well. I suppose we'll see what happens. He uses a PowerBook, is a math teacher, has a hairy chest, and is slightly socially awkward. It might be a good fit.

I'm going to rent 'Richard III' and get sloshed. Ta.

2006 AIDS Walk Colorado

2006-08-30T13:29:00.000-06:00

For some reason it feels strange to me to be posting anything along these lines following my last post. However, this is equally as important as holding accountable politicians for the lies they tell, if not more so. Plus I promise not to use the "C"-word in this post.

This year's AIDS Walk Colorado is only two weeks away and I am shamelessly soliciting donations! Huzzah! Working for Starbucks is a rather good thing when it comes to charities like this. Starbucks will match 100% of the funds donated through me, or any other Team Starbucks member. Totally awesome, right? The minimum donation is $20, but because you all love me so much, I know you'll donate more than that. This seems lacking in detail, but it really self-explanatory, no?

In any case, if you are interested in donating in any way shape or form, please go to my donation page:

John Manwaring's Donation Page!

If you are fortunate enough to live in close proximity both to me and to Denver and have a few hours free on Sunday morning, come participate! There's no registration fee to participate, plus Team Starbucks will provide you with refreshments and a wicked-ass t-shirt! This year there will also be an AIDS Run. Both the run and the walk are 5K (Two laps around Cheesman Park, I believe), though the AIDS Run does carry a registration fee of $25. If you want to join the team, click the link below. If you joining the team, I ask that you still donate through my page so I can have Starbucks match it (Alas, one must be a Starbucks partner to do so).

Team Starbucks Home Page

I hope everyone helps out in some way! If you don't, you're a bad person and you're going to be burnt alive in the fiery hellpit that is the inner circle of Hades. But I love you anyway.

Thanks!

Psycho Bitch

2006-08-29T16:05:00.000-06:00

Katherine Harris is a cunt. A horrid, smelly, putrid, chunky, dripping, cheesy, fishy, nasty, disease-ridden cunt. In the words of someone infinitely more wise than me, "It's not that I want to kill her, it's that I want her to not be alive anymore." Terribly applicable. Read what the bitch said.

Rep. Harris Condemns Separation of Church, State

ORLANDO, Aug. 25 -- Rep. Katherine Harris (R-Fla.) said this week that God did not intend for the United States to be a "nation of secular laws" and that the separation of church and state is a "lie we have been told" to keep religious people out of politics.

"If you're not electing Christians, then in essence you are going to legislate sin," Harris told interviewers from the Florida Baptist Witness, the weekly journal of the Florida Baptist State Convention. She cited abortion and same-sex marriage as examples of that sin.

Harris, a candidate in the Sept. 5 Republican primary for U.S. Senate, said her religious beliefs "animate" everything she does, including her votes in Congress.

Witness editors interviewed candidates for office, asking them to describe their faith and their positions on certain issues.

Harris has always professed a deep Christian faith. But she has rarely expressed such a fervent evangelical perspective publicly.

Political and religious officials responded to her published remarks with outrage and dismay.

Rep. Debbie Wasserman Schultz (D-Fla.) said she was "disgusted" by the comments "and deeply disappointed in Representative Harris personally."

Harris, Wasserman Schultz said, "clearly shows that she does not deserve to be a representative."

Ruby Brooks, a veteran Tampa Bay Republican activist, said Harris's remarks "were offensive to me as a Christian and a Republican."

"This notion that you've been chosen or anointed, it's offensive," Brooks said. "We hurt our cause with that more than we help it."

Harris told the journalists "we have to have the faithful in government" because that is God's will. Separating religion and politics is "so wrong because God is the one who chooses our rulers," she said.

"And if we are the ones not actively involved in electing those godly men and women," then "we're going to have a nation of secular laws. That's not what our Founding Fathers intended, and that certainly isn't what God intended."

Harris campaign spokeswoman Jennifer Marks would not answer questions about the Harris interview. Instead, she released a two-sentence statement.

"Congresswoman Harris encourages Americans from all walks of life and faith to participate in our government," it stated. "She continues to be an unwavering advocate of religious rights and freedoms."

I say horrible things about people like Katherine Harris (Of whom, I must add, there seems an unnatural overabundance), using words like cunt, fascist, devil, satan, whoreface, and cunt. Sometimes regret and the occasional second thought creeps into my mind, leading me to perhaps consider possibly question the use of such words. Then the bitch goes and pulls statements like that out of her stinky, cheesy, sticky (think peanut butter sandwich) cunt that are not just offensive and off the mark, but flat out lies.

Let's break it down.

In one fell swoop the bitch claims to know the thoughts not only of a group of men long dead before her oldest ancestors managed to disenfranchise their former slaves in the Reconstruction South, but of God the Almighty. The bitch is a prophet. We might as well bow down and worship at her alter of chlamydia (you just know the bitch is rife with it). As if that weren't offensive and falacious enough, the bitch goes on to imply that our leaders are annointed by God. Guess what, cuntface? That's called divine right. Charles I, onetime King of England, refused to acknowledge that concept as illegitimate, went to war over it, and promptly got his head cut off. Is that really a path you want to tread? She goes on to say, "If you're not electing Christians, then in essence you are going to legislate sin." I know some groups of people that make take offense at that, namely Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Secular Humanists, Atheists... you know, just to name a few.

The fact of the matter is that this bitch has crossed every line of morality, ethics, sense, and common decency that could posibly exist. I'm not sure what else I can say. If there is anybody that reads the bitch's words and is not angered, saddened, and stirred to action on a very fundamental level... perhaps you should re-read the Constitution of the United States of America, and, for that matter, the Bible.

By the way, just so everyone understands the true intent of the Founding Fathers, let's consult an authority on that intent. What follows is an excerpt from a letter President Thomas Jefferson wrote to the Danbury Connecticut Baptist Association, dated January 1, 1802, not thirteen years after the writing and ratification of the Constitution:

...I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their legislature should make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof, thus building a wall of separation between church and state.

Sign O' The Times, or: What Would Jesus Think of You Being Such a Butthole?

2006-07-30T23:09:00.000-06:00

Fantastic. Someone has actually managed to help me despise religion, and Christianity in particular, somewhat less. Well, maybe that's saying too much, but it gives me hope that perhaps the concept of a unified philosophically pluralistic society isn't so far-fetched. Tis an article from the New York Times - I think you have to registger to read it online, which isn't a bad idea, in general, to keep oneself informed, but don't expect me to link to it here because poopy poo Blogger won't let me - that I've republished here. Enjoy.

Disowning Conservative Politics, Evangelical Pastor Rattles Flock

MAPLEWOOD, Minn. — Like most pastors who lead thriving evangelical megachurches, the Rev. Gregory A. Boyd was asked frequently to give his blessing — and the church’s — to conservative political candidates and causes.

The Rev. Gregory A. Boyd leads a congregation outside St. Paul. The requests came from church members and visitors alike: Would he please announce a rally against gay marriage during services? Would he introduce a politician from the pulpit? Could members set up a table in the lobby promoting their anti-abortion work? Would the church distribute “voters’ guides” that all but endorsed Republican candidates? And with the country at war, please couldn’t the church hang an American flag in the sanctuary?

After refusing each time, Mr. Boyd finally became fed up, he said. Before the last presidential election, he preached six sermons called “The Cross and the Sword” in which he said the church should steer clear of politics, give up moralizing on sexual issues, stop claiming the United States as a “Christian nation” and stop glorifying American military campaigns.

“When the church wins the culture wars, it inevitably loses,” Mr. Boyd preached. “When it conquers the world, it becomes the world. When you put your trust in the sword, you lose the cross.”

Mr. Boyd says he is no liberal. He is opposed to abortion and thinks homosexuality is not God’s ideal. The response from his congregation at Woodland Hills Church here in suburban St. Paul — packed mostly with politically and theologically conservative, middle-class evangelicals — was passionate. Some members walked out of a sermon and never returned. By the time the dust had settled, Woodland Hills, which Mr. Boyd founded in 1992, had lost about 1,000 of its 5,000 members.

But there were also congregants who thanked Mr. Boyd, telling him they were moved to tears to hear him voice concerns they had been too afraid to share.

“Most of my friends are believers,” said Shannon Staiger, a psychotherapist and church member, “and they think if you’re a believer, you’ll vote for Bush. And it’s scary to go against that.”

Sermons like Mr. Boyd’s are hardly typical in today’s evangelical churches. But the upheaval at Woodland Hills is an example of the internal debates now going on in some evangelical colleges, magazines and churches. A common concern is that the Christian message is being compromised by the tendency to tie evangelical Christianity to the Republican Party and American nationalism, especially through the war in Iraq.

At least six books on this theme have been published recently, some by Christian publishing houses. Randall Balmer, a religion professor at Barnard College and an evangelical, has written “Thy Kingdom Come: How the Religious Right Distorts the Faith and Threatens America — an Evangelical’s Lament.”

And Mr. Boyd has a new book out, “The Myth of a Christian Nation: How the Quest for Political Power Is Destroying the Church,” which is based on his sermons.

“There is a lot of discontent brewing,” said Brian D. McLaren, the founding pastor at Cedar Ridge Community Church in Gaithersburg, Md., and a leader in the evangelical movement known as the “emerging church,” which is at the forefront of challenging the more politicized evangelical establishment.

“More and more people are saying this has gone too far — the dominance of the evangelical identity by the religious right,” Mr. McLaren said. “You cannot say the word ‘Jesus’ in 2006 without having an awful lot of baggage going along with it. You can’t say the word ‘Christian,’ and you certainly can’t say the word ‘evangelical’ without it now raising connotations and a certain cringe factor in people.

“Because people think, ‘Oh no, what is going to come next is homosexual bashing, or pro-war rhetoric, or complaining about ‘activist judges.’ ”

Mr. Boyd said he had cleared his sermons with the church’s board, but his words left some in his congregation stunned. Some said that he was disrespecting President Bush and the military, that he was soft on abortion or telling them not to vote.

“When we joined years ago, Greg was a conservative speaker,” said William Berggren, a lawyer who joined the church with his wife six years ago. “But we totally disagreed with him on this. You can’t be a Christian and ignore actions that you feel are wrong. A case in point is the abortion issue. If the church were awake when abortion was passed in the 70’s, it wouldn’t have happened. But the church was asleep.”

Mr. Boyd, 49, who preaches in blue jeans and rumpled plaid shirts, leads a church that occupies a squat block-long building that was once a home improvement chain store.

The church grew from 40 members in 12 years, based in no small part on Mr. Boyd’s draw as an electrifying preacher who stuck closely to Scripture. He has degrees from Yale Divinity School and Princeton Theological Seminary, and he taught theology at Bethel College in St. Paul, where he created a controversy a few years ago by questioning whether God fully knew the future. Some pastors in his own denomination, the Baptist General Conference, mounted an effort to evict Mr. Boyd from the denomination and his teaching post, but he won that battle.

He is known among evangelicals for a bestselling book, “Letters From a Skeptic,” based on correspondence with his father, a leftist union organizer and a lifelong agnostic — an exchange that eventually persuaded his father to embrace Christianity.

Mr. Boyd said he never intended his sermons to be taken as merely a critique of the Republican Party or the religious right. He refuses to share his party affiliation, or whether he has one, for that reason. He said there were Christians on both the left and the right who had turned politics and patriotism into “idolatry.”

He said he first became alarmed while visiting another megachurch’s worship service on a Fourth of July years ago. The service finished with the chorus singing “God Bless America” and a video of fighter jets flying over a hill silhouetted with crosses.

“I thought to myself, ‘What just happened? Fighter jets mixed up with the cross?’ ” he said in an interview.

Patriotic displays are still a mainstay in some evangelical churches. Across town from Mr. Boyd’s church, the sanctuary of North Heights Lutheran Church was draped in bunting on the Sunday before the Fourth of July this year for a “freedom celebration.” Military veterans and flag twirlers paraded into the sanctuary, an enormous American flag rose slowly behind the stage, and a Marine major who had served in Afghanistan preached that the military was spending “your hard-earned money” on good causes.

In his six sermons, Mr. Boyd laid out a broad argument that the role of Christians was not to seek “power over” others — by controlling governments, passing legislation or fighting wars. Christians should instead seek to have “power under” others — “winning people’s hearts” by sacrificing for those in need, as Jesus did, Mr. Boyd said.

“America wasn’t founded as a theocracy,” he said. “America was founded by people trying to escape theocracies. Never in history have we had a Christian theocracy where it wasn’t bloody and barbaric. That’s why our Constitution wisely put in a separation of church and state.

“I am sorry to tell you,” he continued, “that America is not the light of the world and the hope of the world. The light of the world and the hope of the world is Jesus Christ.”

Mr. Boyd lambasted the “hypocrisy and pettiness” of Christians who focus on “sexual issues” like homosexuality, abortion or Janet Jackson’s breast-revealing performance at the Super Bowl halftime show. He said Christians these days were constantly outraged about sex and perceived violations of their rights to display their faith in public.

“Those are the two buttons to push if you want to get Christians to act,” he said. “And those are the two buttons Jesus never pushed.”

Some Woodland Hills members said they applauded the sermons because they had resolved their conflicted feelings. David Churchill, a truck driver for U.P.S. and a Teamster for 26 years, said he had been “raised in a religious-right home” but was torn between the Republican expectations of faith and family and the Democratic expectations of his union.

When Mr. Boyd preached his sermons, “it was liberating to me,” Mr. Churchill said.

Mr. Boyd gave his sermons while his church was in the midst of a $7 million fund-raising campaign. But only $4 million came in, and 7 of the more than 50 staff members were laid off, he said.

Mary Van Sickle, the family pastor at Woodland Hills, said she lost 20 volunteers who had been the backbone of the church’s Sunday school.

“They said, ‘You’re not doing what the church is supposed to be doing, which is supporting the Republican way,’ ” she said. “It was some of my best volunteers.”

The Rev. Paul Eddy, a theology professor at Bethel College and the teaching pastor at Woodland Hills, said: “Greg is an anomaly in the megachurch world. He didn’t give a whit about church leadership, never read a book about church growth. His biggest fear is that people will think that all church is is a weekend carnival, with people liking the worship, the music, his speaking, and that’s it.”

In the end, those who left tended to be white, middle-class suburbanites, church staff members said. In their place, the church has added more members who live in the surrounding community — African-Americans, Hispanics and Hmong immigrants from Laos.

This suits Mr. Boyd. His vision for his church is an ethnically and economically diverse congregation that exemplifies Jesus’ teachings by its members’ actions. He, his wife and three other families from the church moved from the suburbs three years ago to a predominantly black neighborhood in St. Paul.

Mr. Boyd now says of the upheaval: “I don’t regret any aspect of it at all. It was a defining moment for us. We let go of something we were never called to be. We just didn’t know the price we were going to pay for doing it.”

His congregation of about 4,000 is still digesting his message. Mr. Boyd arranged a forum on a recent Wednesday night to allow members to sound off on his new book. The reception was warm, but many of the 56 questions submitted in writing were pointed: Isn’t abortion an evil that Christians should prevent? Are you saying Christians should not join the military? How can Christians possibly have “power under” Osama bin Laden? Didn’t the church play an enormously positive role in the civil rights movement?

One woman asked: “So why NOT us? If we contain the wisdom and grace and love and creativity of Jesus, why shouldn’t we be the ones involved in politics and setting laws?”

Mr. Boyd responded: “I don’t think there’s a particular angle we have on society that others lack. All good, decent people want good and order and justice. Just don’t slap the label ‘Christian’ on it.”

Missing You...

2006-06-21T21:57:00.000-06:00

...the point.

In posting the previous article I wasn't trying to win over swing voters, or even really express anything beyond the anger I personally, along with countless others, feel in regards to the blatant, glaring, overwhelming, ridiculous (you get the point) hypocrisy of the political party that is (believe it or not, you know it's true) hellbent on destroying any last trace of liberalism, and instituting backward social policies and an economic system of such bastardized supply-side capitalism that Adam Smith would vomit on terror.

Yeah, that's a run-on sentence. Bitch.

The Republican Party. I'm not saying little Johnny Sonofabitch, head of the local chapter of the Young Republicans is off in Iraq ripping off the ears of prisoners at the behest of Ken Mehlman. I'm saying that anyone who votes for Republicans like Sam Brownback, Rick Santorum, or John Boehner tacitly endorses such behavior. That they are approving of torture, bigotry, greed, racism, the destruction of the environment, the death of personal sovereignty, of principles that, though they may be born of a sincere respect for the constitution, do nothing but serve to rape it of any meaning or value.

I'm sick of Republicans and I'm sick of their bullshit. This isn't mindless, head-banging anger. This is me drawing the fucking line.

Hallelujah

2006-06-16T01:09:00.000-06:00

I coudl write something witty, clever, and insightful and what-have-you. But I'd rather reprint this. Well put. Seconded. Everything. I know I have friends and readers that are republicans, and lord knows I love you, but, yeah... the sentiment of the following pretty well sums it up.

Hey John Boehner, Fuck You!

Let me warn you, I’m in a pissed off mood. I’m in a take no shit, smack people around BAD mood today. I have been since GTL’s piece about the Democrats. Maybe I’m not in the best frame of mind to have a rational debate because man I’m LOOKIN’ for a fight. I’m already chewing iron and spittin’ nails today when I read this from House Leader John “ethical reform” Boehner today:

“Republicans believe victory in Iraq will be an important blow to terrorism and the threat it poses around the world. Democrats, on the other hand, are prone to waver endlessly about the use of force to protect American ideals.”

Hey John, fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you. Blow to terrorism? Maybe you meant that the terrorist were learning how to blow stuff up since they are so good at it now. Protect American ideals? Fuck you again John. Your the party that tortured people in Iraq, in Gitmo, in hidden prisons across this nation. The last time I looked not torturing people was bedrock American ideal, but you shit all over that one. Fuck you.

You want to frame it that we waver on using force to protect American ideals John, bring that debate my way. Yes, we are arguing when to pull out of the hell hole in Iraq you created. Breeding more terrorists isn’t protecting our ideals. It’s getting us killed. You abandon the fight in Afghanistan where the real enemy was and you complain we’ve lost our stomach for victory. Fuck you.

We don’t like 18 year old kids coming home with their fucking heads blown off. We like our friends to have legs when they come back to their moms. I keep seeing that Welcome Home Mat sign in my dreams and having it hanging over a coffin. It scares me. It gives me cold sweats at night. I keep thinking of my friends here and their family serving and I get angry. Rage, John do you understand? Rage that these kids are dead while you’re framing this that Democrat’s are a bunch of pussies. Fuck you, you murdering, torturing, and massacring mother fucker. I hate you. Your whole government isn’t worth one of those kids lives.

You’re the party that’s more concerned over gay marriage than you are whether people have enough money for food. Fuck you.
You’re the party that’s more concerned over a kid hearing a bad word on TV than if he gets his immunizations. Fuck you.
Your the party that’ more concerned that Exxon-Mobile makes a record profit than getting us onto renewable energy. Fuck you.
You’re the party that would rather cut taxes to the rich than provide decent health care for Americans. Fuck you.

The America I lived in, the ideals I held as a kid believes we had a responsibility to each other in this country. That we were all Americans trying to make this country better for our kids. That the government was for Main Street not K Street. That being a Super Power had more to do with the strength of our morality than the lethality of our strength. I grew up in a country that Had a Dream, not one that created a nightmare. I want my kid to live in that kind of country and you’re destroying it.

Fuck you John Boehner. You couldn’t find my America with a map.

Link: Hey John Boehner, Fuck You!

Getting To Know You

2006-06-05T12:33:00.000-06:00

Your Quirk Factor: 83%

You're beyond quirky... You're downright bizarre.
You've lost touch with social norms and what's appropriate. And you're loving every minute of it!

How Quirky Are You?

You Passed 8th Grade Science

Congratulations, you got 7/8 correct!

Could You Pass 8th Grade Science?

You Are An Invisible Ex

You're so over your ex, you hardly even remember you have an ex
You prefer leave all of the baggage behind you - far, far behind
As they say, indifference is the opposite of love!

What Type of Ex Are You?

Your IQ Is 140

Your Logical Intelligence is Below Average

Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius

Your Mathematical Intelligence is Genius

Your General Knowledge is Genius

A Quick and Dirty IQ Test

Editor's Note: Even though every question was correctly answered, I still scored only 140, and my logic skills termed... well, you see. Point is, my actual IQ is significantly higher than 140. Bitch.

Your Political Profile:

Overall: 15% Conservative, 85% Liberal

Social Issues: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal

Personal Responsibility: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

Fiscal Issues: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

Ethics: 0% Conservative, 100% Liberal

Defense and Crime: 25% Conservative, 75% Liberal

How Liberal Or Conservative Are You?

You Are 88% Open Minded

You are so open minded that your brain may have fallen out!
Well, not really. But you may be confused on where you stand.
You don't have a judgemental bone in your body, and you're very accepting.
You enjoy the best of every life philosophy, even if you sometimes contradict yourself.

How Open Minded Are You?

You Are 19% American

You're as American as Key Lime Tofu Pie
Otherwise known as un-American!
You belong in Cairo or Paris...
Get out fast - before you end up in Gitmo!

How American Are You?

You're an Expert Kisser

You're a kissing pro, but it's all about quality and not quantity
You've perfected your kissing technique and can knock anyone's socks off
And you're adaptable, giving each partner what they crave
When it comes down to it, your kisses are truly unforgettable

What Kind of Kisser Are You?

You Passed the US Citizenship Test

Congratulations - you got 10 out of 10 correct!

Could You Pass the US Citizenship Test?

Your Personality Profile

You are nurturing, kind, and lucky.
Like mother nature, you want to help everyone.
You are good at keeping secrets and tend to be secretive.

A seeker of harmony, you are a natural peacemaker.
You are good natured and people enjoy your company.
You put people at ease and make them feel at home with you.

The World's Shortest Personality Test

You Are Big Bird

Talented, smart, and friendly... you're also one of the sanest people around.

You are usually feeling: Happy. From riding a unicycle to writing poetry, you have plenty of hobbies to keep you busy.

You are famous for: Being a friend to everyone. Even the grumpiest person gets along with you.

How you life your life: Joyfully. "Super. Duper. Flooper."

The Sesame Street Personality Quiz

Your Career Type: Artistic

You are expressive, original, and independent.
Your talents lie in your artistic abilities: creative writing, drama, crafts, music, or art.

You would make an excellent:

Actor - Art Teacher - Book Editor
Clothes Designer - Comedian - Composer
Dancer - DJ - Graphic Designer
Illustrator - Musician - Sculptor

The worst career options for your are conventional careers, like bank teller or secretary.

What's Your Ideal Career?

Your Pimp Name Is...

Long Dong Dazzle

What's Your Pimp Name?

Your Five Variable Love Profile

Propensity for Monogamy:

Your propensity for monogamy is medium.
In general, you prefer to have only one love interest.
But it's hard for you to stay devoted for too long!
There's too much eye candy to keep you from wandering.

Experience Level:

Your experience level is high.
You've loved, lost, and loved again.
You have had a wide range of love experiences.
And when the real thing comes along, you know it!

Dominance:

Your dominance is low.
This doesn't mean you're a doormat, just balanced.
You know a relationship is not about getting your way.
And you love to give your sweetie a lot of freedom.

Cynicism:

Your cynicism is low.
You are an eternal optimist when it comes to love and romance.
No matter how many times you've been hurt - you're never bitter.
You believe in one true love, your perfect soulmate.
And if you haven't found true love yet, you know you will soon.

Independence:

Your independence is high.
You don't need to be in love, and sometimes you don't even want love.
Having your own life is very important for you...
Even more important than having a relationship.

The Five Variable Love Test

Mocha Frappuccino

Hyper and driven, you'll take your caffeine any way you can get it. Frappuccinos are good, but you'd probably chew coffee beans in a crunch!

What Flavor Frappuccino Are You?

You Are Iceman

You tried to live a normal life, but it just wasn't possible
A bit of a slacker, you rather tell jokes than cultivate your powers

Powers: turning self and others into ice, making ice weapons, becoming nearly invisible

Which of the X-Men Are You?

You're A Crazy Drunk

When you drink, you get wrecked - and it ain't pretty.

What Kind of Drunk Are You?

You Are Smokin' Hot

You're a terrible flirt, a sharp dresser, and a party animal.
Of course, you're totally sizzling too. And for you, being hot just comes naturally.

Are You Hot?

Your World View

You are a fairly broadminded romantic and reasonably content.
You value kindness and try to live by your ideals.
You have strong need for security, which may be either emotional or material.

You respect truth and are flexible.
You like people, and they can readily make friends with you.
You are not very adventurous, but this does not bother you.

What Is Your World View?

Your Theme Song is Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd

"There is no pain, you are receding.
A distant ship�s smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves."

You haven't been feeling a lot lately, and you think that's a good thing.
The comfortable part is nice... but you should really work on numb.

What's Your Theme Song?

Your Daddy Is George Clinton

What You Call Him: Pa

Why You Love Him: He takes you to church

Who's Your Daddy?

Lay, Lady, Lay

2006-05-10T19:39:00.000-06:00

"En dépit de mon succès, je veux simplement pleurer".

Quite. I found myself promoted, rather unexpectedly. In two weeks time I'll be moving to a different store, receiving what amounts to a twenty-five percent raise, and a more desirable schedule than I currently work. But I'm horribly depressed about the entire prospect.

I've been at Starbucks nearly four months, working with mostly the same employees, the same customers, the same general atmosphere. I've become terribly good friends with some of both of the former, and in spite of the pitfalls of certain aspects of it, I really enjoy it, moreso than I have any other job. Taking all that into account it doesn't seem so strange, then, that even though my new store is literally four blocks away, I feel like... well, like my entire family has died in a fiery car accident. Like all I have to look forward to is unfamiliarity and the acute discomfortof a long adjustment, without the company of people I know and trust. It may seem silly, but that honestly is how it feels.

I wish I could say I'm being even the slightest bit melodramatic, but it just isn't true. Maybe I just need stronger antidepressants.

* * * * * * * * * *

I got some salt and pepper shakers at Target last week. They are, of course, brushed stainless steel. Pimp, nonetheless. Every time I walk into a Target I feel like blowing my entire paycheck on all manner of kitchenware. I've already purchased silverware, glasses, spatula, and tea kettle from there. It seems only natural I should complement thses things with their kindred kitchen knickknacks. I should probably first pay my utility bill.

* * * * * * * * * *

I suppose my frame of mind regarding my promotion stems from the fact that every part of my life is now laced with some measure of uncertainty. A silly thing to believe, really, as my job is in no jeopardy, I have a nice place to live, and I'm keeping myself in reasonably good health. I can't figure it out. I did read 'The Virgin Suicides', 'In Cold Blood', and 'Fight Club' in succession and am now more than halfway through '1984'. Can't be good for my psyche. I recall being depressed for a full three days after readin 'Of Mice and Men'. SERIOUSLY depressed. As in I had no desire to get out of bed or do anything other lay in bed in silent, muted mourning. I refuse to put down this book until it's finished (It's really fantastic. Cheers, Mego), but maybe I'll lay into some Nick Hornby when I'm done. Or buy a television and waste my life on 'GoldenEye' for Nintendo 64. But whatever.

"C'est la vie".

Or something along those lines.

Paradise By The Dashboard Light

2006-04-26T20:03:00.000-06:00

What a wonderful occasion when I can proclaim loud, proud, without an iota of hesitation or reservation, I am not retarded!

Well... maybe a little.

To explain, a couple weeks ago I developed the urge to sort through all my many boxes, still lining the largest wall of my wee studio, and pull out Jeffrey Eugenides 'The Virgin Suicides'. I'd started some months before but found myself falling asleep every second page and simply unable to get through it. What with the starting of a new job and move to a new apartment I put it aside. When I put it away, sometime in late January, I was on page 62. With the exception of an unintended respite (I'd left the book in a friend's car. Twas a bit messy in there. The car, meaning.) I plowed through the remaining two hundred some odd pages in a matter of five days. Consider I both work and sleep full time. That's an accomplishment. During the time I was without the lovely Lisbon sisters, I delved into 'In Cold Blood'. I was keen on it anyway, but after seeing 'Capote' ha to read it straightaway. All told, it took me about six days to get through its 342 pages. Dense heavy pages. Like a bucket of lard. Or Dennis Hastert. Dense and heavy.

I really have no idea what I'll start next, tonight, meaning. I promised Mego '1984', but I've come to find I don't actually own that one. 'Fight Club' is enticing, but after drowning myself in the enchanting topics of suicide, homicide, and paranoid schizophrenia... well, more of the same doesn't seem such hot shit. If anybody has any ideas of a comedic, or at least light-hearted, novel I might enjoy, please feel free to share. Maybe 'The Inferno'. That sounds pleasant.

* * * * * * * * * *

Stories out of Starbucks... refer to the picture at the top of the post for this one. The other morning, line out the door as usual, lots of people, everyone generally in a good mood, chatting, smiling. Quite. In the middle of it all, catching us quite off our guard, a woman storms up to the counter, cutting the line, and starts screaming at us. I only half heard what she said, too distracted by appearance as it was. Now again, refer to the picture up top. Take away the Perma-smile, make the hair dry, thin, and stringy, somewhat greyed, puff up one side of the mouth, and make the left eye roughly the size of my fist. Put the head on a 4'11", seventy-five pound frame wearing some sort of poncho thing and heinous stone washed jeans, and there you have this woman. Her voice... something like I imagine the love-child of the Cryptkeeper and Sarah Jessica Parker would sound like. The conversation, as it went...

Assface: Uggghh! There! Is a woman.... in your BATHroom, and she will NOT give me the key... uggh! Or let me in unless I show you... an ID?!?!

Me: That's right. We need an ID before we'll hand over our restroom key.

Assface: UGGH! Ugggggghhh! I am so SICK of dealing with stupid people. All day, stupid people. HERE! THERE! LOOK! (She hits wee Alan in the face with her wallet, shoving so forcefully into his line of sight) IT'S me. IT'S me. (The picture on the ID, of course, looks nothing like woman bearing it).

Me: Alright ma'am, if you'll hand me your ID to hold on to, I'll be happy to give you the key.

Assface: UGGGH! UGH! I... UGGGGGGH!

Me: Yeah. We hold on to it as a form of collateral.

Assface: UGH! Ffffffffffffffff.... FUCK YOU! UGGGH! YOU'RE ALL SO FUCKING STUPID! FUCK YOU!

Then she left.

* * * * * * * * * *

Further Stories out of Starbucks... please refer to the photo attached to the post entitled 'She's Got the Look'.

A slow time of day, I, along with Liz the chemical molecular biologist triple doctorate woman that "wanted a career change", are cleaning, a very slow time of day, some very mild jazz playing over the radio, a stream of light gently breaking through the windows... ALLOFASUDDENAWOMANBEARINGNOSMALLRESEMBLANCETOTHATPHOTOGRAPHSTUMBLESINTOTHESTOREANDUPTO- THECOUNTERANDSHOUTSATUS...

"YO! YOU'S GOT FUDGE"

I jump back, hitting the counter. Liz emits a small scream. Then politely, although, startledly says, "No! No we don't!" The woman turns around saying, "OKAY, OUTS."

* * * * * * * * * *

I don't know either.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

2006-03-25T11:13:00.000-07:00

Life for an Atheistic-Apathtic Humanist is hard. Plagued by annoyances at the very least. I was told by two co-workers to watch this season of American Idol because there was some sort of smokin' hot guy on their. The website shows only two guys that are doable, one that's not unplesant but looks an edgy Emo feminine elf (I don't mean Emo Philips), and one that looks like George Clooney kept on the weight he gained for 'Syriana', shaved, and didn't sleep for a month. Naturally he's from Alabama. Really, we all know Alabama is the source of most of this country's ugly people. I should note I hesitate to compare this fella to George Clooney; George Clooney is quite attractive, quite liberal, and not from the South... oh, wait. Tennessee is the South, isn't it? In any case, attractive, liberal, talented. These are the things we like about Georgie Boy. Anyway, just look at the guy's picture. He's only 29. He looks like he should soon be the recipient of a cheap gold watch and a steak dinner at Sizzler before being booted out to make room for the 29 Indonesian children that will assume his responsibilities at work for a sum total wage precisely half what he made in his first year on the job. Gross. Plus it's just plain cruel conincidence to be from the South and have the last name 'Hicks'. Appropriate, but somewhat redundant. "Hi, I'm from the South and my name is Mr. Hicks". Of course it is.

...I very nearly just skipped over the entire purpose of everything I wrote. Jeezy Creezy. So anyway, I went to the American Idol website to check out the fellas and for one of those hideous train-wreck curiosity reasons decided to read each contestants survey/profile/thing. The final question is "If you win, who will thank first?" A few people say things that, to me, are lovely. My parents, America, My Fans. One smartass named Bucky (Ugly, from the South, duh) said "Derrrrr, the camera!" Tard. But fully everyone else says "God" or "Jesus" or some rancid variation on Modern American Christian Reawakening.

Why the bitch doesn't anyone say "Me. It's my voice, my talent, and my hard work that made me successful."? Point being, what exactly did God do to help you hit that F-sharp? Did God teach you breath control, or how to accent the peak of your crescendo with a little trill? No, no God didn't do that. Your voice coach, your mother, the show's producer, or even your clever self, or possibly a combination of any of them. That's who did it, that's who you should thank. Feigned humility isn't charming. It's obnoxious. But whatever works for you. I prefer to take personal responsibility for my successes and my failures. It's a bit more difficult but a lot more fun that way.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I found the USB cable to camera, so as soon as i've cleaned things up a wee bit I'll take pictures of my apartment for all to see. It's wee, but very nice. In the meantime I think I'm going to go for a run at Cheesman Park so I can laugh at the men in the bushes who proposition me and make fun of their pathetic lives and small penises. Good times.

You'll Never Know

2006-03-12T12:10:00.000-07:00

I'm home. A bit. Kind of. Not really. I suppose I should simply say that I've moved in to my own apartment. I dearly would like to take pictures for all to enjoy, but I unfortunately can't find that crazy little cord necessary for transferring photos from a camera to a computer. So you'll have to make do with the above map of the location of said apartment. Huzzah, in any case. I just need a bitchload of furniture - namely a sofa, leaning desk and bookshelves, kitchen island, stool (Haha, I said stool), and something in the way of a television and DVD player. A VCR too, perhaps. Though all my videos are still in a large box at my parents' house.

Anyway, I'm happy with it. It is just a studio, but it's nicer than any apartment I looked at - the affordable ones, that is. Hardwood floors, cherry wood cabinets, gas stove, big nice microwave, concrete countertops, a fan and light with remote control, a coat rack that matches the general decor, and even on 'Ohm' symbol engraved in one of the tiles of the bathroom floor.

Lovely. I need a shower curtain. Have a splendid day, all. Send me gift cards to Target and Crate & Barrel.

Movin' On Up

2006-02-28T23:31:00.000-07:00

Packed. Well, nearly packed. In my room I have nothing more than empty, spartan furniture, and clothes for tomorrow. All else is packed in boxes neatly stacked upstairs. And for the fifth god-damned time in three times the number of minutes the mobile phone belonging to the twink currently co-occupying my soon-to-be-former-roommate's bed has gone off. Some horrid, faggy, technopop bullshit. Grrr. Probably that BT guy (No, not British Telecom, but a French technowhore) with his BAD hair and TACKY clothes and OBNOXIOUS self-righteous sense of innovation. A sense that is nothing but painfully plainly false. What an asshole.

Anyhow.

I've no idea where I'm going to store half my stuff. Some may fit in soon-to-be-former-roommate's garage, but not all. My furniture (entailing a full size bed, a desk, a dresser, and three monstrous bookcases) need to go somewhere. Perhaps I'll be renting a U-Haul tomorrow and carting some shit to my parents' house. Seeing as how I'll be carting my own sorry ass there sometime after 8 p.m. tomorrow, this makes a certain amount of sense.

It would be nice if I had an apartment, one of my own, to which I could return after a long day's work, kick back, listen to some Ella Fitzgerald, and drink a Newcastle. Heavenly. No, instead I'm driving a combination of fifteen miles and thirty minutes to get to my parents' house, to sleep in a bed (Incredibly comfortable, but not mine), in a room reserved for my parents' guests. My olf room has been stripped of its fading Peter Rabbit wallpaper and converted into my father's study/office/den. Yeah. How long I'll be staying... a week, at the most, hopefully. Up to a month, god forbid. A month is my limit. I vowed many years ago to never, afcter first moving out on my own, move back in with the Mam and the Dad. I figure a month is temporary by any standard and falls well within the bounds of the promise I made myself.

I've found some apartments, but the majority of the group are studios and I don't feel I have furniture of the quality that I could stare at it for long periods of time without wanting to burn myself. But one has dark-stained hardwood floors and REALLY nice kitchen cabinets. That might be worth it.

I need to take out the trash. Literally. I have a pile in my room that I need to cart out to the dumpster in the alley. I suppose I'll do that and try and get some sleep. Busy day tomorrow. Why I have the proscrastination gene I'll likely never know. All I know is I am completely incapable of doing anything except at the final moment.

God damn it.

She's Got the Look

2006-02-17T13:04:00.000-07:00

...disturbing, I know. Yet, somehow, I much prefer it to Bo Derek.

Man of Constant Sorrow

2006-02-10T00:25:00.000-07:00

I received a lovely sort of gift the other day. I named it Jorge. If any of you know who Pedro is to me, then you have an idea of what Jorge is. I'd tell you but I'd like a photograph to accompany the official announcement and I can't find my goddamn USB camera cord thing. So boo. Anyhow, I've spent nearly all my free time formatting videos to upload on to Jorge (Damn it! An unintentional but necessary hint) and am addicted to them. And if I had the necessary webspace I'd totally share them with you. But I don't. bowieNet provides only 10 megabytes. Perhaps I should switch to .Mac. Something freaking mad like 2 gigabytes of space. To load with entertaining but ultimately pointless clips from shows like 'Family Guy' and 'Fat Actress'. Anyhow. Time consuming.

I lost my train of thought just then. A sketch from Saturday Night Live of Amy Poehler as Sharon Stone dedicating a lifetime achievement award to Michael Douglas at the Golden Globes. Megan Mullaly pees in a wine giblet at one point.

So.

I realized the other day that I've been spending too much time in the real world. From the transients coming in to my shop asking if they can have my tips, to doctor's visits, to political donations, to school issues, all on top of the general pile of shit that constantly plagues my thoughts, I'm just about to lose it. No sex in God know's how long. I thought I could be nunnish and tough it out, but this just plain blows. Oh well. I can't stop being a slut by going out and screwing.

Holy God. Did I just type that?

Point being, I feel compelled to write something fictional and FABulous. But not now. The kitchen timer just beeped. I made peanut butter brownies from scratch. So suck it bitch. I'll post yet another Blue Pudding classic. I hope you enjoy it. Because I'll be busy enjoying my brownies and listening to Sharon Stone admire Michael Douglas for things like his "capacity for true joyity."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

BOULDER, Colorado - Sorority girl Caryn Felicity Courcier proudly declared Saturday evening her delight at being a drunken whore. "Ohhhhh my God! I am like.... wow, guys.... ohhhhhh my God!" Courcier, a freshman at the University of Colorado, had consumed approximately six ounces of Keystone Light beer and a sip of Jagermeister at the time of her outburst. People close to Courcier were quick to respond.

"Oh, shit, did she hear us? Did someone tell her? Fuck it, she's too drunk to care. What a fucking drunkass nympho whoreface," said John Manwaring, a junior at the Denver campus of C.U.

Alexis Smith, a fellow freshman in Boulder was unrelenting in her verbal attack of Courcier. "UGH! WHAT THE FUCK IS HER PROBLEM!? I MEAN.... AAAUGH!!! Holy shit, for the love of EVERYTHING that's holy, one time in AP English.... and how the fuck did she get into AP English?! I don't fucking know!! She sat there for ten minutes with a finger up her nose, her leg crossed, and kept hitting it to set of the reflex!! TEN MINUTES!!! Aaagh!! And she made a little high pitched squeaky purry-shit noise every time she did it!! I wish she would fucking DIE!!"

Such responses are not uncommonly elicited by Courcier, also known as Courvoisie to some. According to Kelsey Anderson, another acquaintance "Courvoisie... It's like... she can't close her mouth. It's not like she's always talking, it's just... she doesn't close her mouth. It's ENORMOUS!!"

Responding to the various allegations, Courcier said only, "Ummmm.... hahaha! Wow. Where's my Abreva? Hahaha! Ohhhhhh my God, like, guys... like, oh my God."

Smile Like You Mean It

2006-02-06T12:54:00.000-07:00

I'm on the mailing list of this website called Congress.org. The send out weekly e-mails listing all the congressional activity of the previous week and how one's representatives voted. I never realized how crucial, important, vital, and what have you the issues on which they voted really were until I saw today's e-mail. Thank God we have such noble people doing what they can to ensure the health and longevity of the Union. Look at the picture above and look closesly.

I've Got a Loverly Bunch of Coconuts

2006-01-23T21:22:00.000-07:00

I gots me a job at the Starbizzle. Off the hizzle. My crackizzle. So yeah. Starbucks. At Curtis Street on the 16th Street Mall, meaning across the street from the oh-so-exciting Federal Reserve Bank. And I'm addicted to 'Lost'. Almost as exciting as the new job. If 'Lost' came with kick-ass benefits as well, I'd probably be super-hyped about it. Of note, I know I traditionally spell 'kickass' as I did in the latter case rather than the former, however a hyphen seemed terribly necessary to achieve the aural effect I desired. So there it is.

Oh! Apparently the spite-filled, rage-induced, generally-not-nice letter my mother wrote to convince university officials I ought be considered financially independent for tuition purposes worked well. They bought it through and through. So now I just have to wait for some bloody Pell Grants to disburse, or rather for somebody to disburse them, and I can go to school! Wicked! Though I've no idea what classes remain open to me, unfortunately. Perhaps online courses this semester. In any case.

Political editorial. Sort of. Jack Abramoff. This story. George Clooney made an off-color joke about His Heinous, Mr. Abramoff during the Golden Globes (Apparently. I didn't watch.) that upset the poor man's family and made his 12-year-old daughter cry. His father, in a rare fit of familial nobility, wrote in an open letter the following: "Your words were deeply hurtful to many innocent and decent people. One day the truth about my son will come out and there will be a lot of people in your industry and others lined up to apologize for their efforts to destroy him and our family."

I know, I know. Just wait.

Georgie Boy had "no comment", but his lovely father, Nick Clooney, said the following: "I understand what it is like to have one's son criticized in a very public way. It's very painful and it's very difficult. The difference here, and it must be said, is Mr. Abramoff's son, instead of pursuing some positive efforts to do what he hoped would change the climate of the American politics, has confessed and has been convicted by that confession of subverting the political process."

Take a moment and consider. If you need a reminder Jack Abramoff is the whore of a man who sold damn near everything to damn near every Republican politician (McCain seems the only exception) and didn't give a shit until he got caught, and even then didn't care until he realized he couldn't buy his way out of jail, try though he might. Read again his father's words. And ponder.

Last I checked, few, if any, in the entertainment industry were out to get Jack(Abram)off. I was under the impression it was the few remaining people in the political industry that retain some small amount of integrity, that were, and rightfully so, out to get him. Aside from that, THE MAN IS GUILTY. Perhaps the only sort of newsmedia to which the Abramoff's expose themselves is film and television awards shows, but if the man's hands were any redder, you'd think he, not Jackson, had ordered the Cherokee Trail of Tears. (Uncouth, I know, but considering the reference and the complexities surrounding it, I feel perfectly justified.)

Summation: Asshole does hideous things. Asshole gets caught. Asshole confesses. Actor/Director makes off-color joke. Asshole Sr. gets offended because Asshole Jr. cries because of said joke. Asshole Sr. writes letter chastising Actor/Director. Actor/Director rightfully doesn't give a shit and keep his mouth shut. Actor/Director(+Politician) Sr. writes perfectly worded and objective letter. All is right with the world. I listen to songs sung by auntie of Actor/Director to emphasize the fact.

Gaslight

2006-01-18T12:29:00.000-07:00

"Paula. Paula, what did you do with the brooch, Paula? Paula. Paula."
"Aaagh! Aaagh! Nooo! Aaagh!"

(From the 1940 George Cukor film 'Gaslight', courtesy the estates of Ingrid Bergman and Charles Boyer)

I swear to God. For the past week I've been planning on attending a Starbucks job fair that is to be held this evening. Wednesday, January 18th. Sitting here on my computer, the memory on which I reset last night, I was trying to figure out a schedule - go running at Washington Park, fix the school situation, revise and print resumes, etceterizzle (© Mego) - when I glanced at the date in the corner: Wednesday, January 19th. What the bitch? I say to myself. If it's truly the 19th then I have to be in court to argue that bogus traffic ticket that landed me a night in the Jefferson County Jail three weeks back. And if it's truly the 19th I've already missed the Starbucks job fair. I looked at the Starbucks website for guidance, because honestly, who doesn't? No good. They provide the date of the job fair (January 18th) but no day. Shizzle! So I dig out said bogus traffic ticket, call the obscure little city of Mountain View....

Time for a necessary digression. You're probably thinking the same thing I am. Mountain View? What the hell? Doesn't John live in Denver? Huh? Yes, Virginia, John does live in Denver. Howwever, unbeknownst to the world, a small city called Mountain View exists for about 8 city blocks at the convergence of Denver, Lakewood, Arvada, and Wheat Ridge. Seriously. I looked it up. The estimated population in 2004 was 536, with nine more women than men living in it's 0.1 square mile area. Fuck me. What the fuck. Only I, out of the 3 million some odd people in the Denver Metro area could manage to get a traffic ticket in a city smaller than my high school with a quarter its population. Fuck me. Running. Fuck me running.

...As I was saying, I call up the city of Mountain View and explain to the very confused woman to whom I am speaking that I am unable to make court this afternoon when she interrupts and, practically shouting, says "We don't have court this afternoon. It's tomorrow." Oh. Okay. I look at the date on my computer, open up System Preferences, and realize I set the date and time manually, neglecting to select the "Automatically Set Date & Time from Apple Server".

I rule.

Maxwell's Silver Hammer

2006-01-11T18:14:00.000-07:00

Help me out with this one. I have, of late, been browsing... well, not "personal" ads, but online profiles, mainly because I'm completely disaffected with the scores of available men in Denver. About 15% of them I usually encounter a picture of a guy good-natutedly flipping me off.

Yeah.

To evoke the spirit of the movie 'Clueless", these guys basically say "Fuck off" and I'm expected to swoon? Let's clear this up. Flipping someone off, in person or otherwise, does not make you edgy, attractive, or unique. It makes you an asshole. Yep. ASSHOLE. You're not charming, clever, or even pleasant. You're the type of person I want to walk up to and drive a nail into your skull. But that's just me.

Anyhow, using the example that incited this (photo included at the top of this post) the caption meant to entice me, and really any other random fella who might happen upon the profile, is this: "im too lazy to think of anything interesting or witty to say right now, so if you want just send me a message and see how things go."

Yeah. Jesus. Not only are you an asshole, but you're a lazy, retarded asshole. So there you go.

Mark Ruffalo, Viggo Mortensen, or Colin Firth: If you see this, call me. You're the last decent men on earth.

At Last

2006-01-06T20:56:00.000-07:00

A thousand pardons. I've simply been to busy/lazy/tired/stressed/sleepy/gassy/bitchy to post anything. Among other things. Ahem. Anyhow, I perused The Onion website a few seconds ago and saw this nugget of joy. Seems terribly applicable to me for some reason.

Libra
September 23 - October 23
Your judgment is called into question when, despite the strong advice of your friends down in the marketing department, you decide to go ahead with plans to launch a winter invasion of Russia.

Shoplifter

2005-12-21T11:53:00.000-07:00

Pardon the series of brief posts, but I don't feel all that wordy right now. Anyhow, in light of Bush's recent rape of the Constitution, and tubal insemination of the fourth and fifth amendments, I thought a blast from the past, a year ago to be exact, is in order.

President Bush talks about wire tapping...

Now that you've listened to that, read this bit from Justice Brandeis' dissent in Olmstead v. U.S., one of those pieces of judicial opinion that should itself be ratified and be placed among the supreme law of the land.

The makers of our Constitution undertook to secure conditions favorable to the pursuit of happiness. They recognized the significance of man's spiritual nature, of his feelings and of his intellect. They knew that only a part of the pain, pleasure and satisfactions of life are to be found in material things. They sought to protect Americans in their beliefs, their thoughts, their emotions and their sensations. They conferred, as against the government, the right to be let alone-the most comprehensive of rights and the right most valued by civilized men. To protect, that right, every unjustifiable intrusion by the government upon the privacy of the individual, whatever the means employed, must be deemed a violation of the Fourth Amendment. And the use, as evidence in a criminal proceeding, of facts ascertained by such intrusion must be deemed a violation of the Fifth.

Enlightening, eh?

Perestroika

2005-12-20T22:38:00.000-07:00

Strange, the things that affect me, that affect us, and strange when they do.

I watched 'Angels in America', all six hours. I've seen it twice before, and have noticed bits that touched me, moved me, however you want to phrase it. This time around, though, I noticed words I hadn't before, and they made me... well, not cry, but get tears in my eyes. It hurt. To have tears in my eyes hurt. But once they were there and I'd wiped them away, a headache I didn't realize I'd had went away, and the pressure that's been on my back for some time now was gone.

"Nothing's lost forever. In this world, there is a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we've left behind, and dreaming ahead.

At least I think that's so."

Some Enchanted Evening

2005-12-20T16:52:00.000-07:00

I'm some kind of fucked up. I have a crush on Russ Feingold. Anti-capital punishment, anti-PATRIOT Act, bold and wonderful bi-partisan campaign finance reform, and a high score on GLBT issues. Only a handful scored higher, like Kerry, Kennedy, Durbin, Dayton, Lautenberg, Corzine, Wyden, and Leahy... yeah, it sounds like a lot, but he's a only a wee smidge behind them. And they're all kind of doggy anyway. He also started this wicked-awesome 'Calling of the Bankroll' thing where before any legislation is voted on, he reads off the contributions of all corporations and organizations to all the Senators involved. Bitchy and enlightening. He has two daughters but no mention is made of a wife on his website. Hmmmm.....

Anyhow. Go Russ. Maybe we can have a Clark/Feingold, or Clinton/Feingold ticket in 2008. Yeah... I'd go for that.

Uninvited

2005-12-19T18:52:00.000-07:00

South Park is super-sheer-genius. Perhaps because I've watched several episodes of the show in the past few hours in a futile attempt to avoid finishing the work I absolutely need to finish in order to officially finish the semester is why I think so highly of it. Somehow, though, Middle East policy simply does not interest me right now. Oh! I also updated photos on my facebook.com profile featuring my Halloween costume from that big ass freaking party at Coors Field last year.

I realized something a few days ago, though: there's no point in my giving an account of the trip to Europe simply because I can't freaking remember what happened. I wrote a brief history of one day on the trip then looked at a bit I wrote while actually on the trip and realized I... well, there were a number of discrepancies. So. Read what I wrote while I was there. That's what REALLY happened. So. I really should do my homework seeing as how I can up my GPA to a 3.95 if I do. So. Kickass.

Battle Hymn of the Republic

2005-12-15T23:15:00.000-07:00

Not in much of a mood to write, or share, or anything remotely close to either activity. Instead I'll sustain the myth of a "Fair" & "Balanced" Fox News Channel.

Fox News Reporters Encouraged To Raise Religious Issues

Fox News Channel Vice President John Moody has encouraged network anchors and correspondents to raise religious issues during interviews and to suggest that conservatives who have expressed strong religious convictions are unfairly attacked by their liberal detractors, a former Fox News producer and writer said Wednesday. In a letter posted on Jim Romanesko's message board at the Poynter Institute, a Florida journalism school and think tank, Charlie Reina, who spent six years at the news channel, observed that Moody, who reportedly writes a daily "editorial note" to the channel's staff, provides anchors "a clear blueprint of what's expected of them." Reina described Moody as "a scholar and biographer of Pope John Paul II ... a devout Catholic, who seldom holds back on matters of the church." One of Moody's daily memos suggested a question of the day: "Can a man of deep Christian faith be appointed to a federal job, or will his views be equated with racism, intolerance and mean-spiritedness?" After a bombing at a Baghdad hotel housing reporters, Moody's memo advised them to "offer a prayer of thanks for their safety to whatever God you revere (and let the ACLU stick it where the sun don't shine)." Such views from on high, Reina concludes, are part of a confrontational strategy by the network that includes its current attack on "the war against Christmas" conducted by "a shameless management willing to use even Christmas for its own political ends."

Jenny From the Block

2005-12-14T03:08:00.000-07:00

Five hours and twenty two minutes out from my Middle East Politics final and I'm struggling to complete an assignment due November 2nd. Yes, as in last month. I'm having a really difficult time trying to glean what the major foreign policy obhectives towards the Middle East were in Nixon and Ford's presidencies, respectively, but just don't care. Maybe because Nixon and Ford did jack shit in the Middle East. The Communists were in China and Vietnam.... why should they care about stupid old Palestine and stupid old... hmm. Not Ehud Barak... ANWAR SADAT!! Haha! I remembered sumpthin'.

Anyhow...

Yeah. Let's hope little Robert Hazan is kind enough to give me a minor extension in finishing this shizzle. Hell, I'll even be a Zionist if he'll do that for me.

UPDATE, 4:46 A.M.: Alright, I finished the bloody stupid Nixon/Ford bullshit and am slowly but surely forging on to the next exam and the Carter Presidency. This truly is a milestone. I have never pulled a true all-nighter in my life. I don't think. Nope. I haven't. I'm pretty darn sure. The closest I got was my author study on John Steinbeck for 10th grade Honors American Lit. I still manage three hours of sleep that night and an 89% on the paper. Not bad for four-six hours of work, eh?

Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again

2005-12-13T15:53:00.000-07:00

I've been missing Spain lately. A LOT. A beta version of Google Earth for Mac OS X was leaked and since installing it I've done nothing but trace old walking paths and reminisce and such. Look at the photo of Sevilla. It's the greatest ever. The city, not the photo. Good memories, so thoroughly un-American. As a matter of fact, the only American bits I saw were a Burger King up near the Alameda de Hercules and a showing of 'The Curse of the Jade Scorpion'. Oh yeah, and the Tex-Mex bar that had perhaps the worst Tex-Mex I've ever tasted. It was sweet, in a way. Anyhow, the more I think about it, and meeting with old flatmate from second apartment in Sevilla Patrick my last night in London only aggravated this, the more I want to go back. Fuck law school, or grad school, or what not. I'll take two years, become fluent it SPANISH Spanish, get all sorts of TOEFL certifications, let myself be thoroughly imbued with the culture, then proceed with the rest of my life. Sounds like a damn good plan. Anyhow, look at the photograph and experience a piece of the life of John from September through December of 2001.

Ha luego.

Da Da Da

2005-12-10T22:13:00.000-07:00

People, many of them, from various walks of life, many of whom I've never met, etcetera, have been asking about my tattoo. Until about two weeks ago, I'd forgotten I even had one. Seriously. I think before that the last I'd thought of it was some time in August. Anyhow, lest I be rushing about lifting my shirt like a depraved exhibitionist, I figure this is a more appropriate forum for, well, the exhibition. I know any normal person could simply have typed "Looky here, I gots me a tattoo" and left it at that, but I respect you all too much to show as naked a photograph as exists of me without some decent amount of explanation. That I explained my explanation is a bit much, but, well...

Huh. I just need to stop already, yeah?

Purple Rain

2005-12-06T21:03:00.000-07:00

Apparently my little Blue Pudding website had some devoted followers, who yearn still for my lovely, lyrical witticisms, such as my piece on the Olsen Twins. Needless to say, I feel obliged. Here, then, is an article written in the aftermath of the 2004 Grammy Awards, and the otherwise wonderful opening performance.

THE HAGUE - The War Crimes Tribunal of the United Nations today tried and convicted American pop star Beyonce Knowles for being "a sacrilegious bitch." The charges were filed only minutes after U.N. prosecutors witnessed Knowles sing a duet of "Purple Rain" with rock icon Prince. "I mean, what the hell?!?" raged the furious Tribunal Vice President Fausto Pocar of Italy "The f***ing whore was wearing pink! PINK! Who wears pink during PURPLE Rain?!?! What a c**t!" Vice President Pocar, along with O-gon Kwon, a Tribunal judge, drew up the charges, filing complaints under international terrorism statutes hastily passed after the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. "I dare the bitch to try it again!" said Kwon in the moments after officially filing the charges. "We'll see what color she likes after sharing a cell with Slobodan "The Sodomizer" Milosevic."

Knowles, restraining tears at an afternoon press conference, begged the Tribunal to withdraw the charges. "I didn't know what I was doing!! I thought I was supposed to be singing the theme song from Pinky & The Brain with Rob Lowe!! Please!!! You gotta understand!!" As the tribunal has refused to withdraw the charges, and no lawyer will represent Knowles due to the heinous nature of her crime, she will likely be put to death within the week.

That's that. Hope you enjoyed.

"I beg to dream and differ from the hollow lies..."

2005-12-06T13:24:00.000-07:00

I can't effing write about freaking Israelis and Palestinians anymore. It pisses me off and I'm already pissed and piss plus piss equals male P.M.S. ....That doesn't do it justice. As my sister says, "I'm not P.M.S.ing, there's no "pre" about it. I am M.S.ing!!!"

That being said, some thing two weeks overdue, a full and complete account of the trials and travails of travel in Europe following terrorist attacks and violent civil unrest.

To begin. I left the 14th of November, a Monday, without event. I arrived at the airport, checked my bag, sat at the gate reading 'Dubliners', boarded the plane upon the appropriate announcement. The flight was fantastic. Cheers, British Airways. The flight was sparsely populated, me having a row to myself, yet half an hour after take-off a flight attendant approaches and asks, "Pardon me, sir, but you look a bit stuffed. Would you like to move to an exit row?" I was under the impression that given certain events of four years ago and the restrictions thereafter imposed such generosity was forbidden. Screw that. Coach seats on airplanes, or 'World Traveler' as B.A. so euphemistically calls them, are built for people no taller than 5'9". If you're lucky. I'm 6'2". I took her up on her offer, moved to an exit row, which was entirely unoccupied, and took quite a fancy to it. Maybe it had to do with the fact that I cheated a wee bit and put myself down as DOCTOR John F. Manwaring on my passenger information form, but the attendants sucked up to me the entire time. Not suck up, really, I had nothing to offer in return, but were extraordinarily attentive. Constantly topping me up on Vodka Sevens or Rum & Coke, whichever I chose; giving me double portions as "vegetarian meals don't suffice for a fit young man such as yourself"; and, the best of all, offering me a pillow and blanket from First Class. Luxury. Pure luxury. The freaking Ritz and Savoy couldn't do it better. Would that they had simply moved me to First Class, but as they weren't offering First on that particular flight and Business Class was full, what I was given was more than welcome.

Moving on. As I wrote before, the flight was perfect, quick, and uneventful. The landing was so smooth that I actually asked if we'd landed; I thought we were coasting along, ten feet above the ground, cushioned by a gentle gust of wind. No, the pilots just kick ass. Off the plane, through the passport-stamping-place. My passport, a replacement issued in Madrid after losing my primary passport somewhere outside Gibraltar, doesn't scan in the computers. It actually looks quite fake. Armed guards standing by unclip their holsters, resting their palms on the handles of their respective guns, while I give the skeptical security lady the whole story, from my two unexpected nights in Gibraltar because the bus and train stations don't take credit cards, the flight from Gibraltar to Sevilla is around $350, the banks are closed for Sunday and Guy Fawkes, my cell phone battery is dead, and family at refuse my collect calls, getting bit by Barbary apes, reading 'King Lear' for A.P. English, reading about David and Victoria Beckham attending the premiere of 'Harry Potter' with their little son dressed in Burberry and looking like a schmuck, to finally getting on the first bus on Tuesday, meeting the one-legged man without a crutch, putting my passport inside my travel journal, realizing as I packed Wednesday night for Paris that I'd lost it, rushing back to the bus station, shouting "iHe perdido mi pasaporte! iHe perdido mi pasaporte!' making everyone in Andalucia search for it, giving up, talking to the only English-speaking secretary at my Spanish school, a woman who is ironically Greek, finding that because of the stupid veterans and their stupid holiday and some stupid saint that lived in stupid Madrid that I wouldn't stupid be able to get my new stupid passport until stupid next Tuesday, stupid cutting in to my stupid time in stupid Paris, the stupid lady at the stupid embassy in stupid Madrid stupid telling me how stupid God was stupid punishing us with stupid terrorist attacks because stupid George W. Bush stupid executed a stupid innocent retard and stupid Tom Daschle was a stupid Antichrist.

Sorry about the retard part. He wasn't stupid. Just blatantly innocent. I meant it about stupid George W. Bush though. Stupid.

Anyway, the lady looked at me like I was a holding a gun to her child's head, stamped my passport, and hurried me through, The guards, guns still unclipped, were scratching their heads thinking, "Are we on Candid Camera?" So I wait at the baggage claim for an hour, get my luggage, hop the Heathrow Express, get to Paddington Station, take fifteen transfers to get to Euston Square, wander around for half an hour looking for my hostel, finding Russell Square, finding my hostel, and finding my room was in the basement which smelled of stale pot and spaghetti. Whatever. Worked for me. A COAT! I forgot to bring a coat! And a guidebook! Damn it! I know London, but not that well. Amble on down to Waterstone's on Oxford Street, visit thirty department stores, beginning with H&M, only to return to H&M some time later to by the coat I'd wanted all along. Fantastic. It's a great coat, by the way. It's night by now, a weekday, so Oxford Street is actually somewhat quiet, so I wander back through Russell Square, up to King's Cross and the British Library, fall asleep on the Lindisfarne Gospels (Or was it the Codex Sinaiticus?) go to Starbucks, grab a coffee to get myself adjusted to Greenwich Mean Time, go back to the hostel, and meet the most unpleasant lesbian Italian bitchface. Bitch.

Okay, not full and complete. I need to stop typing for a bit. I've been at it for over thirty minutes. More later. Enjoy the picture above, of flags hanging off the Radisson Edwardian on Great Russell Street. Ta.

The Fight Song

2005-12-03T09:18:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting on the toilet - no, not doing anything for which a toilet is normally used, but simply because the bathroom is the warmest room in the house - staring out the window, looking at the snow. The house has old casement windows, not terribly effective anymore, that let in a bit of cold air every time there's a breeze. It's sort of... refreshing isn't an adequte word... pleasant, I suppose. It's pleasant. Anyhow, I'm sitting here, browsing nothing in particular, looking at the website for Trinity College at Cambridge, then checking my e-mail for Metro State College. The juxtaposition is striking. I don't mean to complain about my school, I do rather like it, the professors (excepting one) are fantastic, and I'm actually learning something. But comparing the two makes me feel middle-aged in that I'm looking back on my life and finding myself thinking, "God, you're a failure."

I'm not, not really, it's just mildly devastating to realize your potential then to realize you haven't realized it. In May it'll be four years since graduating high school, the majority of people with whom I went to high school will be graduating with various undergraduate degrees, and I'll be registering for summer semester so that I might, with all possible luck, graduate in two years. It's not so daunting a prospect when I consider I read 'Life of Pi' in a sum total of eight hours and actually understood it, despite being something of a dense book. I finished 'Dubliners' again, and actually understood some of the stories - side note, I was reading it while on the Eurostar from Paris to London, reading as we pulled in, "His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead." I started to cry. It really got me. The people already eager to get off the train were even more zealous when they saw this tall, mildly handsome fella with tears streaming down his cheeks. Off topic, but point being I'm no longer the lazy dunce I quite recently was. I also read Al Franken's new book, the new Lemony Snicket, and am halfway through 'The Partly Cloudy Patriot' by Sarah Vowell. A fantastic read so far. Again, point being, I'm more than capable of finishing school in two years, of graduating with a near-4.0 (That damn Language, Logic, and Persuasion class - How can I understand Aristotelian logic when the professor has the heaviest Polish accent this side of Krakow? Honestly.), and of being able to go to damn near any graduate school I want, be it Oxford for History, Politics, and Philosophy, Cambridge for English Literature, or freaking ANYWHERE for law school.

Anyway.

I ought be off and study Johnson administration policy toward the Middle East. Have a charming day.

Rainy Days and Mondays

2005-11-30T15:44:00.000-07:00

I know, I've been lazy. I continue to be lazy. I promise I full account of the trip is forthcoming; in the meantime, please enjoy the complete series of photographs as previously advertised:

A Collection: Failed Self-Portraits by a Dazed American Youth'.

Ta.

Ready to Run

2005-11-25T15:05:00.000-07:00

I suppose a full account of my Franco-Anglo exploits is in order. As it is I just returned from working out - my aerobic abilities decreased surprisingly during my trip, despite walking approximately ten miles per day - and I have to shower then race to my sister's wedding rehearsal, you'll simply have to content yourself with a photograph from the series entitles A Collection: Failed Self-Portraits by a Dazed American Youth. The opening is at MOMA in three weeks. Cheers.

Displayed Selection: Northeast, Arc du Triomphe, Paris. The memorial arch is located behind and to the left of the artist's furrowed brow.

Man in the Moon

2005-11-22T14:01:00.000-07:00

Look! Apple Store! London! iMac! With built in iSight! Woot woot!

Who Do You Think You Are?

2005-11-22T12:58:00.000-07:00

Word. There's no point to this. I'm going home tomorrow and I'm not sorry for it. Everyone in Paris is acting weird - for obvious reasons - and London now, to me at least, feels not like London but like New York, only dirty, stinky, crowded, and without the manners. I don't know what happened. It's just different. There are more tourists, I think. I realized I came to Europe within two months of September 11, 2001. Most people were scared their plane would explode or something. Mine didn't. None of them. If that's a comfort. Anyway, twas less crowded, much more pleasant, and prior to terrorist attacks and riots by discontented minorities.

Going for a pint with friend Patrick, former flatmate from Spain. I e-mailed him a month ago and just received a reply about four hours ago. Pint, though. So it's a good thing.

Find a song by the Spice Girls that shares the title of this post. It's addictive. It's like heroin.

Ta.

Double Trouble

2005-11-18T20:42:00.000-07:00

'Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire'. Brilliant. Twice. In the Space of twelve hours. Brilliant. Third film is still my favorite, but nonetheless. Brilliant. Tomorrow, Tate Modern, Somerset House, and somewhere I've never been. I'll figure it out later. Night all. Loves and such.

Blister in the Sun

2005-11-17T16:34:00.000-07:00

I inadvertently, as in without thinking, chucked £3 into the little computer here. As there's no way to refund or retain or anything like that, I intend to use the hour of time that I bought. A good portion of it at least.

Pain. The whole day. Pain. Fett. Legs. Back. Neck. Absolutely miserable. My bed is comfortable, my shoes are decently comfortable, there's no real reason I should hurt so much. I popped about ten Tylenoly - of course, when I asked for Tylenol the fella at the counter thought I'd spoke Czech or something. I then asked for acetaminophen so he gave me something called Protocephalamenithol. Or something. As it didn't work for more than twenty minutes per dose, I felt rectification was in order. I went to Tesco and bought some handy ibuprofen. Zap the pain away, rather, as fucking it away is quite out of the question right now.

Anyway, in spite of the pain, an eventful day. Up I woke, ate hostel breakfast (Cereal and stale bread), took the tube to Victoria & Albert Museum. I really rather would have walked, but, you know, pain. The museum was quite interesting - not my sort of place, really, as it's mostly about design of all sorts - and terribly large and vast and such. So that was fun. Realized I hadn't had more than a few cups of water since arriving, so bought two bottles of water for £3. Meaning about $5.50. Note, never buy food at a museum. Especially a museum in London. Left the museum, walked up the street to Royal Albert Hall, which doesn't look at all like it did in 'Spice World', and noticed a massive monument to Prince Albert. (Some kid just sat at the computer next to me. He smells. Horrible.) I really don't understand this Prince Albert stuff. Was he really that great? He doesn't seem to have done anything except marry Victoria and die. Whoop-dee-shit. Whatever. I noticed that I'd happened upon Kensington Park... or is it Hyde Park? The big park in the west. So I strolled. Fun stuff. Pretty. God, I'm boring myself with this shit. So I strolled to the north side of the park, found a tube station on the line to St. Paul's Cathedral and hopped on.

I went to St. Paul's last I was here and absolutely loved it. A lot of construction was taking place at the time, though. This time everything was perfect. I just looked really amazing. And for the first time in my life everybody around me was observing the 'No Photography' rule. First time ever. I was stunned. So. I climbed the dome, to the "very itty bitty tippy toppy" as the ticket vendor put it. I wanted to hug her. It was windy. And cold. And I nearly pushed a little girl - whoops, she's in her thirties - over the edge. I would have laughed. Ha ha. So, went to the Museum of London, which contained a whole lot of crap I already knew. Maybe because I was in a sour mood, but how many fucking Bronze Age swords found on the South Bank of the Thames does a museum need? They must have had a hundred hanging up, each with it's own little description. And out of spite, I read every single description. That's right. Fuck you, history. Fuck you. They did have the original manuscript of Haydn's 'The Creation' so the visit was entirely worth it. As I was love the museum I had eye sex with a waiter that was there for some banquet of some sort that was starting not too much later. Had we both enough time I'm sure we would've thrown down right there in the Lord Mayor's carriage. I would've reenacted 'Titanic'. You know, the bit in the car. Nevermind.

I hopped the Central Line in hopes that, as they did for the 2nd film, Odeon Leicester Square would be showing an advance screening of the movie. No such luck. They were showing some Zorro shit. Bah. As a matter of fact, the first showing of Harry Potter in the entire city is 9:40 A.M. at the Odeon. So if people at home see the midnight showing, they'll still have seen it before me. There go my bragging rights. Bastards. Oh well. I went to an old bookstore of Picadilly Circus (Cheers, Mego) and bought a book the brother Ben has been worshipping, 'The Life of Pi' by Yann Blushibluh. That's not really his last name. But I had you, didn't I? So. Bought that, got some pizza back at Leicester Square and, as all the theatre shows had already begun, saw 'Wallace & Gromit' at the cinema. I felt like a tard. I bunch of couples and me. And I'm the only one laughing. Boo. It was funny and cute and all that in any case.

Now I'm back here, wasting away time and money on a computer kiosk with a shitty keyboard wanting nothing more than be doing homework for Conducting Poltical Analysis, of all things. I make no sense. So that's that. I think I'll do laundry so I have clothes and then go to sleep. Ta.

I Wanna Sex You Up

2005-11-15T18:23:00.000-07:00

I went to my room to try and sleep. Two shoes had been placed about three feet to the left of the door, one containing a little sign with a message about a mouse in the house and the other containing a 'Do Not Disturb' sign. Whatever. I walk into my room and I notice the sheets on the bunk next to mine are a little... umm, high. As in... too high. For one person to be under them. And moving vigorously at that. Oh good. Just what I was hoping for. Rather than overreact (This is a hip, happening youth hostel, after all) I figure I'll take a walk to this 24-hour coffee joint I'd read about years back. So, I walk down to SoHo square, Frith Street to be exact, have the second best cappucino I've ever had, THE best tiramisu I've ever had, chill for a bit, watch the Ricky Martin/Fat Joe video playing on the shop's television. I don't know either. I head back to the hostel, taking a rather circuitous route, finally returning about an hour and a hald later, a rather liberal amount of time for bumping uglies, even by my standards. So anyway, I return and, lo and behold, the same shoes, same signs, same messages remain in the hall. What. The. Fucking. Bloody. Jesus. Christ. In. Heaven. Shitty. Hell. Ass. I mention to the front desk that someone is preventing me from sleeping by having apparently tantric sex in the bed next to mine. The fella at the desk recommends I relax in the lounge and wait for Don Juan de Buttface to finish. Fantastic. So. There are two lounges here. Smoking and non-smoking. Finding cigarette smoke infinitely repellant, I head to the non-smoking lounge. A curious, nauseating odor enters my nose. Cigarette smoke. Poor ventilation in the facility? Close proximity to the smoking lounge? No. A group of ItalianRomanianRussianBulgarianAntidisestablishmentarian assholes have lit up. Like, twenty of them. I nudge the closest one, and say, "Sorry to bother, but I think this is the non-smoking lounge." She looks at me, like a chimp might like at ann insistent child through the bars of his cage, and blows some smoke into the air. I sigh, stand up, walk to the big sign five feet from her face that says 'NO SMOKING' and bears a graphic of a cigarette blocked by that ubiquitous international symbol for 'NO! BAD! STOP! YOU STUPID FUCK! CEASE THIS LUNACY!' What then? She rolls her eyes and continues talking to the group of bastard people that lack the comprehension skills of a retarded cat. Fantastic. I lay down, try to ignore the smoke, try to nap, succeeding of course at neither. I get up and decide to come here and bitch and moan, and hear as I leave the room, "Like all Americans. He tries to tell all others how they should behave." Oh yes. Oh yes. Smokeblowing Whoreface. She spoke English. Quite well. She was just being a bitch. I could've launched into a passionate anti-American tirade, but why bother? She'd still be a bitch. And she'd still smoke and act like I was the asshole. Fantastic.

I'm going to my room in the feeble hope that the cumulative orgasm wasn't so powerful as to stain my sheets. Good night. Perhaps.

Wouldn't it Be Loverly?

2005-11-15T16:14:00.000-07:00

It's about 11:15 P.M. here in jolly old London. And I'm sitting in the backroom of a vast hostel near Euston and King's Cross wondering what the hell is wrong with me. From the beginning, I suppose.

I've been so completely distracted these past weeks, indeed months, that I haven't had the time to daydream about this little jaunt I've taken. I was preoccupied with other aspects of life that I neglected to consider whether I even wanted to do it. I'd come twice, would've been thrice had airfares not been so vicious last summer (meaning of 2004). Tradition is tradition, I thought, and I have the means so that's that. Now I'm here, terribly exhausted, and wishing I was home watching reruns of 'Family Guy'. Anyway. The flight was fine. Wonderful, really. A kind flight attendant moved me to an exit row seat as she said I "looked a bit stuffy". I know how that sounds but that's not what she meant. Moving on. The landing was perfect to the point of me asking a different flight attendant why we hadn't yet touched down.
Maybe that it took an hour for luggage to show up at the baggage claim. On this, I was convinced security had seen the pill bottle in my suitcase with two medications and vitamins, none of which belonged to the label on the outside, assumed it was LSD, and were holding up all the luggage while they plotted my downfall. Score one to my overactive imagination. I arrived at Paddington Station and swiftly realized I'd left both my guidebooks and my coat at home. Score one to my scattered memory. I found my hostel after fourty-five minutes because, without a guidebook, I had no idea where I was going. I found Russell Square, a reliable point of reference, and found the place within five minutes. I sort of got settled in (It was 2:30 by this time. My flight arrived at 10:20 A.M.) and headed to Oxford Street, went to Hennes & Mauritz, John Lewis, United Colors of Benneton, Marks & Spencer, and Selfridge's, all to go back to H&M to buy the coat I'd originally wanted. So there's £50 gone. It's an excellent coat, though, so I don't really regret it. Moving on... wait, I forgot to mention getting lunch at this little organic grocery down the street from the hostel. Great falafel and Thai noodle salad. Moving on, went to Waterstone (?) and bought a London guidebook, figured out where I was, walked to King's Cross all the way searching for a pay phone not littered with booby porn, found one at King's Cross only to have the people I was calling not answer. Fun. Went to Starbucks, got a monster coffee, then decided I would waste away the time until I should be going to bed and see a movie in Leicester Square. So I did. 'The Constant Gardener'. Excellent movie. Sad, though. I dozed through what I think was the first fifteen minutes. I've no idea, though, because aside from the coat and guidebooks I forgot a watch. I'm timeless. (Haha!)

I'm hoping a night's sleep will cure what ails me. Oh yeah, I went to the British Library and fell asleep on the Codex Sinaiticus. Again, fun. Tis about 11:30 now. Night all.

"Father, yes son, I want to kill you."

2005-11-12T10:15:00.000-07:00

I remembered this bit from 'Liar, Liar' and started chuckling. Good times.

By the way, methinks the text on this webpage isn't pure white.

GRETA: He knocked over another ATM. This time at knife point. He needs your legal advice.
FLETCHER: STOP BREAKING THE LAW, ASSHOLE!

Don't Fuck Wit Me

2005-11-10T20:54:00.000-07:00

Is Pat Robertson for serious?

Jeezy Creezy. I mean really. Part of me truly wants to believe what he says is benign, innocent, in a way, for being so radically nonsensical. Most of me, though, remembers that a sizeable chunk of the American populace listens to this guy and accepts as true, to some degree, everything he says. Basically, I'm not sure if I should scratch him behind the ears or drive a nail through his skull. This is not, by the way, about his intifada on Hugo Chavez. I have to say, though, that that whole debacle seemed like a sketch from Saturday Night Live ("Kill him! I didn't say kill him, I said take him out. You have proof that I said kill him? Well I meant take him out. No uncertain terms? Really. Huh. That's a pickle.") I'd have Chevy Chase play him. It somehow fits. Back to the real topic. Pat Robertson is now telling the entire town of Dover, Pennsylvania, that God effectively hates them for voting out all the school board members who advocated the inclusion of Intelligent Design, otherwise known as GOD, in the Biology curriculum of public school. Really. The whole town. Republicans, kitty-cats and all. See for yourself.

My religious beliefs: I don't give a shit. Every religion ultimately, at its heart, tells people to be good people. Thomas Jefferson said it quite well: "...in the four words, 'Be just and good,' is that in which all our inquiries must end." Telling someone that God has abandoned them because they don't want taught in their Biology classes the least scientific idea of all is simply wrong. Not just. Not good. WRONG. Pat Robertson is a complete retard. Not in the "Oh look, it's Chris Burke," sort of way, but in the "Mah fourteen-year-old daughter got knocked up so she'd better git hitched to the feller whut dun it," sort of way. Ugh.

It's sad, really, but the way I take find solace amidst people like this is by retreating into quiet solitude, reciting the names of whomever it is that has caused me stress ('Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell, James Dobson...'), and reminding myself in a still, small voice, "They'll all be dead within ten years."

Ahhhhhh.

Nirvana.

Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves

2005-11-09T23:17:00.000-07:00

To address comments mentioned in passing, no, the picture on the blog is not me. No, I'm not a transexual. Homosexual, yes. They're different, I promise you. I don't want to come within ten feet of an exposed vagina, much less have one permanently attached to my chach. So again, no, not me. Friend Alexis. Or Cleopatra. Whichever you prefer. I like to call her Lexie Cleopatra, captain of the Mexi-Blaxploitation Fag Hag Squad. She's fun. And funny. And looks like Eva Longoria. The picture doesn't demonstrate this latter point well, but I assure you it's true. When I get back from London I'll post a picture of Maggie Thatcher and I beating the poo out of John Major. It'll be fun.

Other note. To those who say addiction is a disease. I've been pondering and considering and have decided that, yes, indeed, it is a disease. What exactly, though, does that mean? Does it mean when you fuck up, fall down, and use whatever it is to which you're addicted that the rest of us should just say, "Oh, well, it's a disease." When someone whose cancer has gone into remission suffers from a new tumor or whatnot, do the doctors around just say, "Oh well, that's cancer for you. It'll clear up on its own." Fuck no. They poison you to the brink of destruction to kill something only slightly, and only in certain cases, weaker than the human body. They beat the shit down. So addiction. No pills will cure it, no tonic will aleviate it, no, none of that. The only thing, the ONLY thing that cures, or at the very least treats addiction, is self-discipline. It's difficult as shit, no doubt, but it's not impossible. You work and you try, you fall and you fail, but you always get up and try, try again. The more you do this, the easier it becomes to say no, to ignore the craving, the temptation. The moral of the story: next time someone says to you anything along the lines of "It's so difficult, it's so hard, I don't know how to get better, I don't know how to change," say to the person this: "STOP IT."

Let that one sink in. I'm going to read Lemony Snicket then go to sleep.

Eleanor Rigby

2005-11-08T19:00:00.000-07:00

Maybe that's a bit melodramatic. But really. I don't much care that I'm going to London in five days. Could be that I've been so overwhelmed by school work that the idea simply hasn't taken hold. Could be that the Paris portion of the trip may be called off entirely. Doubtful on that count, but really, de Villepin needs to bust out some Viggo a la Peter Jackson or some serious shit is going to go down. Or maybe he could dress up like Sally Bowles, coke himself up, and get an abortion. That might distract people from the riots. But I digress. Point being I don't care and I don't know why. What I find strange is that I do care why I don't know why. This is a problem for me. Constantly. I feel something, or vaguely think it, prevalent and passionate, yet I don't know what it is I'm thinking or feeling. It's maddening.

In other news, I spent ninety minutes browsing Snopes.com, reading on controversial topics like the possibility that Jamie Lee Curtis is a hermaphrodite, or "intersexual", how one of the chicks in one of the Roger Moore Bond pictures (One Life To Live? That can't be right.) was a transexual, and how John Barrymore rigged an audition to make it look like that Carradine chap had just given him a blowjob. Good stuff.

I just pegged it. I haven't gotten any in three weeks.

Screw this. Tonight, I'm smacking down, hopping on, and going for a ride.

"And that bitch Anne Murray, too..."

2005-11-07T17:28:00.000-07:00

So. Check this shit out. Or check out this shit. Shit isn't a preposition, is it? To be honest, I'm not sure if my first use of the word is as a preposition or an adverb. Nonetheless. Check this shit out. Dateline Canada. The New Democrats, a small political party and key member of the Parliamentary coalition withdrew their support of Prime Minister Paul Martin and his Liberal Party. The reason? The government was apparently unwilling to stop the increased use of private health care.

Wow.

This is good shock, not bad. I'm just amazed to see a political party wielding power for something good, like, you know, universal health care. Do you think there's a sect of Democrats in the U.S. that would do that? Splinter off because Harry Reid wasn't doing enough to advance social causes? Well... maybe. But then we'd call them Republicans, so that doesn't count. Point is, a political entity is refusing to coalesce in contradiction to their principles. Principles that aren't evil (Tort reform? Who is Karl Rove kidding?).

So. Cheering, diappointing, maddening. The gamut of emotions known as "The Cybil Spectrum". Cheers, Canada. Cheers.

I'm about four-fifths of the way through Al Franken's new book. Some Dippy-do bitch whore in my Middle East Politics class tried to dispute claims Al Franken makes in the book, saying ridiculous things like "He just lies. He says these people say things they didn't ever say." Ha. Being the good social-libertarian that I am, I refuse to completely trust anybody, even those with whom I am politically in love. So when he cites a quote or anything of the sort I consult good ol' LexisNexis to verify. The point this girl made, and props to her for knowing her "enemy" (She said this, not me. Remember, she voted for the uniter, not the divider), was that Al Franken quotes Frist as making a rather specific diagnosis of the Sideshow Her Parents Made, Terri Schiavo, on the Senate floor. Days later he appeared on the Today show and denied making any such statements. "No! No he didn't! He never said that! Al Franken took it all out of context and distorted it. It is such a lie! Senator Frist even denied it! On national television! To Matt Lauer!" said the girl. Sure he did. And Iraq had weapons of mass destruction. So, funny it was when I checked the facts, the bitch whore was partially right. Al Franken's quote was a selection of key points Frist made in his speech. A form of paraphrasing, I suppose, but not really. It might be a moral dilemma to include in one's book the full text of a thirty minute speech when one happens to be a conservationist. So. Compare the speech Frist made, surprisingly available here to the quote used by Al Franken on page 150 of his book (Go buy it yourself, you cheap bastard. I'm poor) and tell him exactly how misleading the quote is. So. Fun with cheese. If the brand of cheese is Hypocrisy & Misinformation. Fun.

"Two can be as bad as one..."

2005-11-05T16:10:00.000-07:00

Please. For the sake of humanity. For your own sake. Do not eat Domino's Philly Cheese Steak Pizza. I ate one slice. One. Not ten minutes later were the unpleasant repercussions shooting out my ass. Just a warning.

Hot in Herre

2005-11-04T20:02:00.000-07:00

No, that is NOT a typographical error. Just ask Nelly. No point to this. I'm tired, bored, and pissy. Maybe working out and seeing simultaneously on seperate televisions Joan Collins, Joan Rivers, and Ann Coulter. Blah. Ann Coulter. What a fucking whorecunt. I have better, far more articulate ramblings about her, but again, tired, bored, and pissy. So that's that.

"...and remember when I moved in you, the holy dark was moving too, and every breath we drew was 'Hallelujah'."

2005-11-01T17:46:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I simply do not understand. My thoughts are torrential, scattered, and confused, yet at once singular and blank. For all the questions, both the ultimate and underlying conclusion are blunt. Abrupt. Like being stoned to death, repeatedly, by a single, monstrous boulder. It is difficult in a way none could possibly anticipate, no matter the prior warnings.

Maybe it's that I haven't taken my anti-depressants in nearly a week, but no matter the reason, I keep thinking of Brave New World. Wellbutrin is normative, a sort of bare minimum; Soma is sounding like a damn fine idea right now.

Fantasie in D Minor

2005-10-28T18:09:00.001-06:00

I looked closer at the results of my wee little political spectrum test. It includes this pictographothingamajig of famous people and where they lie on the scale. I think I object to the inclusion of Adam Sandler, but seeing him wedged between Donald Trump and Martin Luther King kind of makes up for it. Anyhow, if you look closely, you'll see the three people to whom I'm closest on the scale are three of the people I most admire: Gandhi (I mean, reallym, who doesn't), my lovely Hill-Hill, and good ol' Gorby. Polar opposites? Geroge W. Bush and Ronald Reagan. And a couple other fellas. I can't figure out who they are. I thought one might be Silvio Berlusconi, but, no, I was wrong. Anyhow, not a surprise. So, yeah, blow me Reagan.

In other news, I'll be seeing The Hunger tomorrow with Mego, Ali, and Godknowswhoelse. Lesbians, tater tots, and David Bowie. Life doesn't get much better.

And in yet more news, sex clubs are weird. No manners at all. People just walk in and expect something. Excuse me, but no. A person doesn't necessarily go to a sex club to have sex. Some people go because they're bored, restless, can't sleep, and think to themselves, "You know what I've never done? Been to a sex club." More detail than is necessary, to be sure, but still... they're just weird.

"Hey! Look me over! Lend me an ear..."

2005-10-27T13:55:00.000-06:00

Ahhhh, how wondful today feels. Harriet Miers withdrew her nomination to the Supreme Court. Twas a bit odd, the manner in which I found out. I was running late to class, had to swing by the Student Union to pick up a blue book for my International Relations exam, book it through a crowd of high school choir students (Why they were on my campus, I've no idea, but my little big singing ego almost took hold and convinced me to start belting out "False Phyllis" or something. Common sense took hold and I instead went directly to class.) I sat down in the classroom and started tearing into an explanation of Just-War Theory, something that seems in modern times to have fallen by the wayside, when I looked up at the chalkboard and noticed some erased writing from the previous class that partially remained. It stated "Harriet Miers has withdrawn her nomination to the Supreme Court citing concerns over the possible abuse of attorney-client privelege. No replacement has yet been named."

Without a thought, I shouted at Professor Moeller, "Oh my God, is that for serious? That, like, totally rules!" Valley Girl parallels aside, the sentiment was appreciated. Moeller smiled broadly, something seldom seen from such a bitchy old (He's 37) libertarian, and said "Yes, just this morning." "Kickass!" I replied. Some punkass kid from last semester's constitutional law class, a punkass kid who didn't like me for being liberal and the best student in the class, hissed, "Shh! SOME of us are trying to take a test. SOME of us have to WORK for good grades." Without turning, I said, "Some of you do. Pity. Be sure not to overexert yourself. You might need the brainpower to remember how to get home." Moeller stared, incredulous. The kid snorted. I didn't care. I fiddled around for a while, played with the iPod, etc. I don't believe I started the test until fifteen minutes after everyone else, yet I finished ten minutes before.

Moeller is always prompt about grading; he starts, in fact, as soon as he receives the test, and enters the grades after that. I just checked the class website: I got an A.

I'm such a bitch.
:wink:

"Some say you're troubled boy, just because you like to destroy all the things that bring the idiots joy; well..."

2005-10-25T16:35:00.000-06:00

"...what's wrong with a little destruction?" I worked out. Go me. But now I'm trying to wear myself into submission to the point of actually wanting to do homework for my Middle East Politics class. No offense, but this boy doesn't much care about Hajj Amin Al-Husayni and Gamal Abd al-Nassar at the moment. A thousand pardons. Part of wearing myself in to submission is taking worthless tests on okCupid. I rather like this one, though...

You are a
Social Liberal
(80% permissive)

and an...
Economic Liberal
(5% permissive)

You are best described as a:

Socialist

Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid
Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

"Good Night, and Good Luck..."

2005-10-24T18:38:00.000-06:00

I saw 'Good Night, and Good Luck' last night. Absolutely incredible. I never found religion in the Bible, in church, or even a prayer. But in anything that upholds principles in which I believe, that shows beautifully and honestly the necessity of these principles, that's my religion. That's my truth. The movie was perfect. Seriously perfect. And as Edward R. Murrow really did, I've now found, say what he was shown to say in the movie, I consider him to be among the best of people. So, yeah. From his broadcast on Joseph McCarthy:

"We must not confuse dissent with disloyalty. We must remember always that accusation is not proof and that conviction depends upon evidence and due process of law. We will not walk in fear, one of another. We will not be driven by fear into an age of unreason, if we dig deep in our history and our doctrine, and remember that we are not descended from fearful men -- not from men who feared to write, to speak, to associate and to defend causes that were, for the moment, unpopular. We can deny our heritage and our history, but we cannot escape responsibility for the result. There is no way for a citizen of a republic to abdicate his responsibilities. As a nation we have come into our full inheritance at a tender age. We proclaim ourselves, as indeed we are, the defenders of freedom, wherever it continues to exist in the world, but we cannot defend freedom abroad by deserting it at home. Cassius was right. "The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves."

Good night, and good luck."

La Tortura

2005-10-24T13:31:00.000-06:00

It feels to me quite strange and not altogether proper to look back on a certain period of time and think "I was happy then." As though it were a singular event in life, never again to be repeated. I'm not utterly miserable or anything, I simply am not as happy as I once was, namely the time I lived in Spain. Maybe it was the contrast, being removed from the hysteria following the terrorist attacks on September 11, then being virtually thrust into a society I no longer recognized. In Spain, the world didn't stop. It sympathized with the United States, but by and large life there went on much as it had throughout it's existence (or at least since 1975, thanks to Francisco Franco). Point being September 11 isn't all it's been made out to be. It was demoralizing, shocking, disheartening, and all manner of unpleasant realities. The most... I don't know, NECESSARY reality, I suppose, has been largely if not completely overlooked: it was not a declaration of war. It was a security problem that showed glaring gaps in how we approached our own safety. Think of it like Titanic. Powerful, unmatched, supposedly untouchable. Then an iceberg pokes twelve square feet of holes in its side and it sinks to the bottom of the ocean. It didn't need to sink, but certain people were so convinced of its invulnerability that they refused to do what they should have done to save it at the outset. Really, when you think about it, September 11th saw relatively minute holes poked into the invincible mentality of the U.S. Enough to be a wake-up call, but not necessarily to sink the whole lot. Fortunately, I think, the country hasn't sunk to the bottom of the ocean. But unless we put September 11th into perspective and thus in its proper place the holes will grow bigger and the country will go down a lot faster than any boat and with far more dire consequences.

I apologize for not being as articulate as such a topic deserves. My intent was not to write about September 11th; when I looked at my pictures from Spain, though, everything I was thinking and feeling while I was there and immediately after I returned came back to me. I wouldn't call myself patriotic, but I think that I had to start on heavy doses of anti-depressants when I came back is somewhat significant.

I Would Die 4 U

2005-10-22T03:12:00.000-06:00

Apollonia. I just... huh. What to say, what to say. Her full birth name is Patricia Apollonia Kotero. Mego says we should call her Pat. I vote for Mrs. Kotter. Like 'Welcome Back, Kotter". But I'm not a sweathog, and do a poor Vinnie Barbarino impression, so I don't suppose that would be entirely appropriate. Anyway. She's interesting.

I just remembered being accosted by Mitch Morrisey, now district attorney for Denver, outside A Senatorial Primary Debate. I was getting sick of Bob Schaeffer's bullshit (What a horrible, racist, homophobic, xenophobic, monstrous prick) so I left early, at which point "Mitch," as he later told me to call him, shouts at me from the back of his Volvo station wagon, "Hey! You wanna yard sign?!" He's a Democrat, so I said yes, but that I didn't have a yard. He seemed a bit bummed, so I said I could instead put it up in a window. Then I ran into him at a gay bar two days later. Weird. I need sleep.

Comfortably Numb

2005-10-21T15:07:00.000-06:00

Considering recent events, this seems entirely necessary. Listen to Whitney, kids. Crack is whack. (Listen to Whitney talk about crack!)

The Bitch is Back

2005-10-20T19:22:00.000-06:00

I don't talk to hear myself speak. It happens quite by accident. If I talk, as a matter of advice, I expect reciprocity. Don't smile and nod and look like you're generally surprised to be breathing. If you do that I become nervous and inevitably say something stupid like "six of one, half dozen of the other" laugh half-heartedly then walk away with my balls retracted into my throat. Today at the gym, for example, Mr. Freakinghot starts chatting me up in the locker room. I have no idea what to do, so I just go into Macho Mode, which for me, as I'm not particularly effeminate anyway, means speaking in a register so low that Barry White would do a double take. God bless his soul. Anyhow, I'm trying to make conversation because he's painfully good looking. And Italian. Which, if you know me, means I'm destined to sleep with him. Plus, every time I'm around him, my gaydar goes absolutely wild. Like insane. But the man is so incredibly masculine. In a good way. Not the Toby Keith way. And I'm rather shy, no matter the circumstances, so I'm trying to make conversation. (I digress quite a bit, don't I?) I can't remember what exactly I said, but it was something pseudo-clever and pseudo-out-on-a-limb, something to which he needs to laugh heartily... no, not heartily, that makes me think of soup... sincerely! To which he needs to laugh sincerely or else I'll drop to the ground and turn into a pile of salt. So anyway, I say this thing, and all he does is gaze deep into my eyes, big smile, smelling so good... so I melt into a puddle a la Amelie. Sigh. He's so pretty. I have a boyfriend though. Who's pretty damn sexy. And Italian. And "wears big shoes". But this guy. DAYuhm! I wonder if that's the proper phoenetic spelling.

One of these days I'll learn the value of paragraphs.

Look Back in Anger

2005-10-20T16:16:00.000-06:00

Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. The four best words to describe my International Relations professor. He thinks he's funny. He thinks he knows about what it is he's supposedly teaching. If I believed what he said I would be telling people that the Soviet Union only ever had four leaders: Lenin, Stalin, Kruschev, and Gorbachev. That would qualify me as a functioning retard. When I pointed out that he left out a few, namely Leonid Brezhnev, Yuri Andropov, and Konstantin Chernenko, he replied. "Oh. I thought there were only four. Well... they were the only ones that mattered, anyway." Strikes me as... I dunno, disconcerting, infuriating, any number of assorted -ing's that I'm able to name all the Soviet leaders, cite certain of their respective actions, and know their impact (all without any formal study of the U.S.S.R.) and this man who spent some twelve years studying the topic in institutions of higher learning, lived in former West Germany, and teaches the subject of international politics for a living not only doesn't know of the EXISTENCE of these men, but dismisses anything and everything they accomplished. Granted Chernenko was President only slightly longer than William Henry Harrison, and Andropov didn't do much except annoy Reagan... but still. Principle. It's the god-damn principle. I know these things and he doesn't. What the hell am I paying several thousand dollars for each year?

OH. OH. OH! AND he says that Reagan was almost entirely responsible for the collapse of the Soviet Union. What. WHAT!?! Bullshit. No. No sir. Mr. Gorbachev. It was him. Reagan stockpiled weapons. And gave a speech. Gorbachev introduced radical new policies of reform throughout the country, and, most important of all, ordered his subordiantes to stand down when people in the satellite states began removing fences, barriers, and leaders. He knew precisely what he was doing. Reagan couldn't remember his own children. Seriously. At his son Michael's college graduation, when Reagan was Governor of California, Michael approached his father to give him a hug, at which point Reagan said, "Congratulations, young man. And who might you be?" Alzheimer's or not, the man was out of it.

Bah.

I'm going to run eight miles whilst yelling at Bill O'Reilly.

Back in the Saddle

2005-10-16T12:56:00.000-06:00

Something about Scottish boys, Willy Wonka, and fragrant Italian cheeses brings out the bestworst in me. Had my first drinks in... quite awhile last night. That is to say I was drunk. The good kind of drunk; I wasn't performing stand-up comedy, so that's good. But yeah. Drunk. Being hit up/on left and right, boys and girls. Twas kind of fun though. I really do like attention.

Rambling.

I need to study the History of England since 1714 lest I fail the midterm tomorrow. Why 1714? Queen Anne died, and the house of Hanover came to power. Despite the populist name change in World War I, England's had the same ruling family since. Not quite as long as the Plantagenets, but I'm sure you knew that.

Sweet Jane

2005-10-16T02:06:00.000-06:00

I am so pleasantly drunk at the moment. Quite. I'm not using my own computer. Neither. Either. Quite. And the REAL 'Lady Marmelade' is playing. God bless AirPort Express and Apple. Quite. Goldschlager!

"I love the sound of you walking away..."

2005-10-15T17:43:00.000-06:00

Franz Ferdinand is gorgeous. What? No, silly, why would I be talking about an early-20th century imperial heir? I'm referring to the band from Glasgow. Beautiful. Wonderful. Etceterizzle (Thank you, Mego). They were at the Fillmore on my birthday, and excepting the crazy bitch-girl with the monstrous bushy ponytail it was thoroughly enjoyable. Even she was somewhat fun. I shoved her at one point. Hard. She flipped me off. I trembled in my bootsies. Then I turned back to Nick McCarthy and started having eye-sexing him. He looks like Kyle McLachlan. In the pleasant 'Sex and the City' way, not the disturbing 'Blue Velvet' way. Though it would be fun to see Dennis Hopper in the background sexually abusing Isabella Rossellini. Whatever that entails. Anyhow.

I find myself behaving with increasing femininity when I get to the gym. The card-scanning girl (I sincerely believe that to be her job - other than that she reads magazines and watches 'The Real World') Reason being, I can't tell if she's just terribly nice or if she's trying to get into my pants. I only discovered I was more than marginally attractive a few months ago, so I suffer from paranoia that everybody is hitting on me. Not in an egotistical way. I have no ego. Except with politics. And movies. And Harry Potter. I'm simply scared of people that are attracted to me. I run away and cry when someone, regardless of gender, makes known his intentions. Weird, huh?

One last digression, I promise. I finally took to Target all the photos I took while living in Europe and had them digitized. This newfangled technology is amazing. I was reminiscing, looking at drunken party at La Carboneria, a delightful club next to my flat in Sevilla, when I found a photo of the courtyard outside my apartment. My window is at the far end of the courtyard, second floor, on the right. :sighs: I've vowed never to return until I can return for good. Or at least to satiate an insatiable urge. Indescribable. Indefinable. I miss it.

Do Somethin'

2005-10-14T17:42:00.000-06:00

Dear readers, please note I do not sincerely advocate any sort of physical violence toward anyone at all, specifically the Olsen Twins. Now psychological assault is completely different. Torment them all you wish. I say we start a petition to bring back Mary-Kate's anorexia. Who's with me? Eh? Eh?

New York Minute

2005-10-14T17:39:00.000-06:00

So. It's been awhile. I was perusing back issues of the old website (the one I've neglected to update in nearly a year) when I came across a bit I wrote about the Olsen Twins. Summer of 2003, I believe. Anyhow, my sides hurt. I'm funny! Point being, I felt my the lack of my presence on the web was an affront to God and humanity. So here I am. Enjoy!

What the Fuck is Wrong With Me That I Want to Set These Girls on Fire and Piss on the Ashes!?!?!?
I wish I had a fucking gun right now. I would brandish it menacingly as I hitchhiked from Colorado to that den of Satan's minions that we call Los Angeles, hunt down the diabolical duo, shove the barrel of the gun down their WASPy little throats and pull the trigger, violently and repeatedly. I am, of course, referring to Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen.

Jesus, I'm evil. I'm actually quite a pacifistic little bastard, but something about these two makes my blood boil. Perhaps it's the fact that they're only sixteen and yet they have individual net worths of 1.8 BILLION dollars. That's right. 1.8 billion dollars apiece! Maybe it's because I'm rabidly envious of the fact that they have a silent guerilla army of millions of little girls strategically positioned around the world whom they may summon whenever they so desire to carry out their maniacal whims. I'm convinced that they made 'Titanic' a box office success with this method.

Getting back to the topic at hand, I decided I should explore the various possible reasons why I might feel this way about them, and so consulted the most direct and available source of information on the pair (No, not Bob Saget or Candice Cameron): Their website. Now, granted, this was several months ago, as I have not the heart to return to it and relive the horror so reminiscent of Joseph Conrad's novellas. What most starkly sticks out in my mind is the content of the section "Real Beauty". I must admit a smile of relief crossed my face, thinking that perhaps they negated all their previous genocidal atrocities by advocating spiritual and moral development, intellectual improvement, and the pursuit of personal truth. I was sadly, but not surprisedly, mistaken. The section is a storefront. No, not for anything as enlightened as one would hope to think. What did they sell is this section?

COSMETICS.

Rage surged through my now seemingly Brobdingnagian bulk and exploded in my finger tips. I began crushing everything in sight: the computer, the desk, my grandma, bunnies, everything.

HOW FUCKING SHALLOW CAN YOU GET?!?!?!

These girls are vapid, heinous little bitches. Not only do they propagate a warped, ultra-capitalistic image that is bought by impressionable young girls, they have the nerve to tell these poor kids that unless you literally bathe yourself in pore clogging makeup, you do not possess "real" beauty and that you are in fact ugly, that all your self-worth and self-esteem relies on your external beauty, and that without it you might as well jump off a tall building and try take out a few other ugly girls on your way down.

Fuck. FUCK. When they hear about humanitarian aid, they must think Mary Kay has dispatched her disciples over Afghanistan in hot pink military transports, dropping buckets of sludge to help the nation's women make themselves up to be whorishly pretty under their thick black burqas.

FUCK THEM!! BURN IN HELL, YOU DEMONIC WHORES OF BLOODSHED AND WARFARE!! DIE!!!

That felt good. I needed to get that out. Everyone reading this should write an e-mail to those little daughters of Rosemary and tell them to shove jars of cold cream up their tight little asses.

Y.M.C.A.

2004-06-21T14:48:00.000-06:00

Whoop, whoop, whoop! Got a Gmail address!! But not through the blog effort. No sir. And I refuse to divulge my source. But I'm greedy. I want another. Mainly because I was thrown off when I tried doing a name, and I was told it had to be at least six characters in length. Bastards. Anyhow, without thinking I entered in an old stand-by possiblity. I should have waited two minutes for the moment when I thought of the name I actually waanted. Oh well. I'm sure I'll get another invite soon enough. Wheeeeee!

Lucy Can't Dance

2004-06-20T22:46:00.000-06:00

I'm in a pickle. I'm scheduled to start my shift tomorrow at noon. Not a problem. Not in the slightest. I love sleeping in. Oh wait. One problem. John Kerry is coming to town, and he's holding a rally at the Civic Center. But when do the gates open? One o'clock in the afternoon, of course. Right when "Shingy", the wee Aussie, comes in and orders his Cambrique. What to do, what to do? Well, thus far my plan is wake up early as though I'm scheduled for seven o'clock in the morning. Call Theresa, or whomever, find out who's supposed to be working that shift. Call whomever that is, ask to trade shifts. That'll work, right? God, I hope so. I don't want to be a shit in someone's shoe, but I bloody want to see this man, and see what chance I think he has of defeating Cunthair... I mean, Bush.

Ain't No Mystery

2004-06-19T14:54:00.000-06:00

I started and finished a book this past week: 'Reason' by Robert Reich. This wee Jewish fella was Secretary of Labor under Clinton, and ran for Governor of Massachusetts against the self-satisified asshole Mitt Romney. Anyhow. Twas an excellent book. Very muse-ish for me. I wrote a few essays based on topics and points of arguement that he mentions in his book. Well worth a read for anyone halfway interested in being a citizen of this country.

I also just started 'The New York Trilogy' by Paul Auster. Not thrity pages into it, and I had an aneurysm. Freaking hell. There's a twenty page monologue by Peter 'That Not My Real Name' Stillman. Only one twenty page monologue has ever been successful in the history of literature, and that's in Ayn Rand's 'The Fountainhead'. Bah. Paul Auster. Bah. Pretentious little shit. He and J.M. Coetzee. They think they're so great. Granted, they are a good degree better than most of today's published writers, but these two particulaly feel the need to forcibly ejaculate that opinion down your throat as you read their works. Anyhow.

Hoes In My Room

2004-06-19T14:12:00.000-06:00

I want a Gmail account. Yes. I very much do. I have a Comcast address as my primary address right now, but seeing as lease on apartment is up in six weeks, that I'll be moving to Cap Hill, and probably getting EarthLink cable internet there, I'll probably not be able to use it. Hence the Gmail. Especially once they add POP3 access. Sweeeeeeeet.

I can't for the life of me remember where I heard this, but it is perhaps one of the funniest (and truest) statements I've ever heard.

"Fighting for peace is like screwing for virginity."

We Both Reached For The Gun

2004-05-14T15:55:00.000-06:00

Feeling better now. :lick:

Blogs are stupid.

Kind of like appointing Clarence Thomas to the Supreme Court... "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Wait. That doesn't work. That was NEVER a good idea.

Born In The U.S.A.

2004-05-11T15:48:00.001-06:00

Link: "Bring 'Em On"

I don't know. I just don't know.

Goodbye, Earl

2004-05-11T13:53:00.000-06:00

Now I'm at work. Listening to Dixie Chicks. Hence the title of this post. I don't know why I feel the need to be so... well, shit. I got up to help a customer, a woman who didn't buy anything because we don't have any muffins left, then I came back to finish writing, and I forgot the word I meant to use to describe my tone in this post.

Suck my ass.

I despise the Democrats in New Hampshire. They voted for John Kerry, a dour, sour, I-might-as-well-be-a-Republican candidate (Who is he kidding?! A five percent tax cut for corporations? Is that of the amount they're supposed to be paying, or the eighteen percent of that amount that they actually DO pay?) as the Democratic nominee. They know full well that they have a strong sway over the rest of the nation as far as advance press for the winner, and accordingly, they have a bit of a greater responsibility in regards to who they each vote for. They aren't always dead on, as demonstrated by John McCain and Paul Tsongas, but more often the not, the winner in New Hampshire wins the nomination. (Tsongas, arguably, would have won the nomination had he not dropped out at the slightest hint of doubt regarding his health; but Bill Clinton was nominated and won the general election, so I bear no resentment.)

Anyhow, all this seemingly incoherent rammbling stems from bitterness over Wes Clark not becoming the nominee. In my eyes he seemed the most viable candidate; His military experience and achievements are unmatched by any other, a presidential attribute certain to be more important in this election than in any other before; his residency in the South would more than likely ensure the electoral votes of at least some Southern states (Yes, it is possible to win an election without carrying a single Southern state, but as no Democrat has taken the White House with at least five of them... well, it's not a precendent I would toy with); He could position himself as a Washington outsider but political insider - he understands the conventions and practices common to the political process, but can view them as an objective observer and identify the flaws with a clarity and ease that one loses with excess immersion in the process; more than all this, though, is simply the man's character, his demeanor. He is irresistably positive and optimistic, is outwardly friendly and approachable, yet has an air of authority about him. Imagine the 1992 iteration of Bill Clinton. Subtract the sex scandals, add twenty years of age and forty of milotary experience, and you have Wesley K. Clark

The voters of New Hampshire aren't entirely to blame; Wes Clark should have stayed in the race longer than he did. Oh well. Maybe he'll be picked as the Vice Presidential nominee. Or should Kerry win, perhaps as Secretary of State of Defense. Yeah. So that's that.

My knee still hurts. Damn tendonitis.

Take My Picture, Smack My Bitch Up

2004-05-11T10:43:00.000-06:00

Apparently I didn't have enough to do. I have to leave for work in 20 minutes. Thank Allah I looked at the clock. I don't need ANOTHER short, fat, Italian woman after my ass with a meat cleaver. At least the walk across campus is generally enjoyable. I dig trees, and the University has those in spades. Anyhow. Huzzah.