Monday, October 31, 2005


EXCLUSIVE: A source deep inside the White House claims that during a closed-door meeting, Clarence Thomas reportedly found a "pubic hair" on Harriet Miers' can of Fresca. The next day, Miers' submitted her withdrawal to the president.


More as it is learned...



Rice pudding.

Not something I've consumed lately.

Thursday, October 27, 2005


The recent news concerning Harriet Miers' withdrawal of her nomination from the Supreme Court has reaffirmed a deeply held belief of mine: women are not only less intelligent than men, they are made from weaker stock; they are full of emotion and tears, seeking nothing in life besides some pathetically contrived validation from their fathers, brothers, lovers, and bosses, and then, when that recognition is revoked, do little more than run away and sit in the corner to go play with their dolls, stroking the synthetic blond hair with a miniaturized comb and whispering, softly, into the small plastic ear, "Someday you'll grow up and be a pretty wife and wonderful mother, won't you, yes you will..."

Harriet Miers - stupid, weak, and manipulated by her man-masters, or just a typical woman? I report, you decide.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005


I think it's just awful that the left-wing media elites are going on this big witch hunt to get all these conversatives. And you know as well as I do that the reason these activist judges and zealous, fame-seeking prosecutors are doing it is because they see the Republicans who love God and are trying to make the country a better place and it's plain as day that all these liberals just can't and won't ever understand that! It's a darn shame that our country is so lost to the wolves on the left that we can't even stop, let alone recognize it for what it really is (a shame!), this shameless attack on powerful conservatives!

What happened to our country! If I had known America could ever get this socialist, I tell you, I bet my grandad is rolling over in his grave. He wouldn't have stood for this! Will you?

Finally, and I know that they probably don't read this site - but who knows? :) - but I'd like to say a little something to Scooter Libby, Karl Rove, Dick Cheney and anyone else who might be indicted for doing their job (and doing it too well for the liberals to handle!!): first of all, buck up! Life will get better! Secondly, you should all know that a lot of people are praying for you and have you all in their thoughts. Even if the jury finds you guilty, we know that you're innocent in the eyes of Jesus! And finally, here's a little picture that always perks me up - I probably look at it at least ten times a day and maybe twice that often on Mondays! Ugh, Mondays!

You guys rock! America loves you all!

Tuesday, October 25, 2005


Yesterday evening after I returned home from work and in the middle of my daily, rigorous, uphill-both-ways, eight mile run (which I perform while wearing a specially-designed, twenty-pound weighted vest), I became lost in an embarrasing sort of personal reverie. As I ran I imagined a parallel American Mastodon, one who didn't sleep through most of his sophomore year of college; one who had a little more amibition and a little less fear of risk - the ultimate American Mastodon: my prime potential person. I imagined the successes I may have accomplished and, since I've always scored well on standardized tests, my imagined achievements were of the academic variety - finishing up my final year in orthopaedic oncology at Stanford or researching the variance in soil composition among African river basins. As I ran, I thought back - were those tests just flukes? Why did I score so well? Should I have flaunted those scores more than I did? Used them to score some hot pussy? But then I tried to think of the women who may have been attracted to statistics like that and, truth be told, could hardly imagine any at all.

I remembered what my math teacher in high school said once in the middle of a class: "When I was in high school, I knew two men who scored perfect scores on their SAT's. One went on to work for NASA, and the other became a drug addict." His fable was obvious and crude, a dagger meant to strike at the impressionable hearts of the teenagers in the room: Even those who are gifted can fall to great depths. Was I the drug addict? Certainly a case could have been made at one time. A benign case, a funny case, a hungry and sort of sleepy case, but a case nonetheless.

I kept running. I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and cursed. As I ran, I thought back even further. Elementary school. ISTEP tests, Iowa tests: halt is to go as dark is to (light, night, day, white). I scored well on those, too. But while scoring well on high school tests seemed like an imperative - everyone clambering to get an edge before applying to college - the tests in elementary school were largely anomalies, more an indicator of who was going to get a wedgie that day than who might end up at Yale. I remember getting those tests back and discovering, to my delight, that I had scored in the "99th percentile" of all test takers. It didn't take long, though, to realize two things - first, a number of my friends had also scored in the 99th percentile and second, if I were being compared to all of the other fifth grade students in Indiana, then saying that I was in the top 1% was an achievement on par with receiving a blue participation ribbon for running a 10-minute mile.

Last eveing, as I ran, I thought about what happened to those fifth-grade friends of mine that scored similarly to me. And do you know the revelation I had? Those students moved away, they got into drugs or alcohol or glue or D&D (a truly ruinous addiction) long before I even barely knew of such things, their parents got divorces and they gave up on life for awhile, or they just couldn't hack it when long division with numbers became equations with letters (letters!). The revelation I had was the understanding of my exception - not the exception of my intelligence but rather the retention of it (and the retention of my desire to demonstrate it to others) through the turbulences of high school and adolescence. It wasn't until college that my belief systems shattered and the idea of choosing to take a class in chemistry became as dreadful to me as cutting off my right hand - my good hand, my jacking off hand. It was the realization that many intelligent people don't care enough about the fact to have to prove it to other people. To, for example, write a blog post about it.

As I ran, I pondered these thoughts for awhile longer, dodging old women and babies in strollers, jumping over small hatchbacks in single bounds, ducking under moving semi-trucks. I synthesized my thoughts and came to a greater understanding of how I had seen myself then and how I see myself now. I came to understand that though I had long ago tossed aside the notion that tests can calculate intelligence or signify some future success, I still must come to grips with the fact that I am more intelligent than some people. I wish this weren't so. I wish everyone were capable and bright and interested in physics and literature. I wish everyone shared an appreciation of the films of Wim Wenders and the philosophical musings of Kant, but they don't.

This is the cross I bear. This is my prison. I don't ask for your sympathy.

I ask for your ear.

I thought of the 99% of fifth graders of the past, the ones that even then had yet to experience death, drugs, dead-end jobs, betrayal - where are they now? Is the world truly so full of stupid people?

I finished my run and walked back to my apartment. As I sauntered down the dimly lit Santa Monica street, my heart rate slowed and my head cleared. My adrenaline slowed and dissipated and I returned to a state of regular perception, of clarity. I shook my head at the foolishness of my thoughts, of their grandiosity, their pretension and their unfounded superiority. I chuckled, briefly, shaking my head, then paused in the darkened, cold alley behind my apartment and stared in the starry night above. So large, the galaxy; so small and insignificant, our time here. My thoughts churned and my mind, becoming angry, quietly admonished myself - American Mastodon, all men and all women are struggling with the same joys, frustrations, failures, and hardships! We all are neighbors, friends, lovers, and penpals - we are the ones who make this grand village!

In the blue haze of the October moonlight, I recited to myself, aloud, some lines from Emerson: To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart is true for all men - that is genius.

Later that night I went to bed satisfied, content, feeling connected to the grand web of human development, achievement, destruction, pain, happiness - a web that, together, we all weave.

But a strange thing happened this morning, friends. I awoke and, after having read this news article, a singular, frightening thought dawned on me: the people of this country may be much dumber than I thought. As a matter of fact, I've overestimated the lot of you - a truly foolish thing to do, and a mistake I'll not likely make again.

So, to sum up, for all intents and purposes, I don't know who among the great unwashed out there is an idiot and who is a reasonable person. Surely, you can not only see my predicament but empathize with it. In turn, then, you will not be offended when I state that I must, from now on, surmise that the overwhelming majority of you are senseless, slobbering idiots, not capable of a single coherent or rational thought and that I have no reason to take anything any of you ever say again seriously.

Ugh. You fucking morons.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005


I really want to read the new Walter Kirn book, "Mission to America". How badly you ask? Way bad. Lee.

This week in Slate, Kirn and Stephen Metcalf are discussing the book. Though Metcalf is doing little more than sending butterfly kisses Kirn's way, Kirn's responses are fantastic. The guy is, in the parlance of our day, "Bananas".

For all of you doubters, here is a snippet from the end of Kirn's last email to Metcalf.

There's one more aspect of the book I'd like to touch on before I go. America is in spiritual crisis now, I sincerely believe it, and novelists just aren't addressing this dire fact. As never before, we're running around the world correcting other people on their politics, their economic systems, and everything else, but here at home life feels hollow and overextended. We can't clean up the damage from our own storms. We can't stop burning fuels we can't replace. We can't lose the weight. We can't pay off the credit cards. We're off on a thousand noble expeditions but back at base camp conditions are deteriorating. My novel allegorizes this situation and was written, now that we're speaking candidly, out of a sense that the grand utopian energies that created the country in the first place are rapidly and disastrously dwindling. It's high time, I think, for a mission to America, carried out from within, from the depths of our own history. My book takes a humorous, fanciful stab at imagining such an exercise (in miniature) and estimating its chances of success. I'm glad you liked it. I'm glad you're recommending it. I wrote this peculiar novel from the heart, not satirically but prayerfully.

Walter Kirn and I would be good friends, I imagine, if I were older, more intelligent, and lived in Montana. Even then, I'd probably be pushing it.

A rare picture of the male species of the elusive "Walter Kirn", native to Montana.


Clearly, Andrew Sullivan is very, very gay. No straight man, or slightly gay man, would ever refer to Arianna Huffington and Judy Miller as a couple of "sex-vixens". How could one's sexy-meter get so jabberwocky? Even I, a very straight man, or at the least, a man of average straightness - a man who feels content acknowledging the manly manliness of a Stone Phillips or the sensitive soulfulness of an Aaron Brown - would never go so far as to call Joe Scarborough or John McLaughlin (baaah, baaaaye!) a couple of "sex-pots".

Based on this comment, which shows a complete lack of understanding of the sexual attractiveness of post-menopausal women, Andrew Sullivan rates a sporting 8.9 out of 10 on the official "American Mastodon Gay Meter"*.

As a measure of perspective, I rate a meager 1.2 (Johnny Depp, Bruce Springsteen), while the Pope, currently the gayest man alive, rates a 9.8. The gayest man who ever lived, Andrew "Stonewall" (wink-wink) Jackson, serves as the data point at the end of the curve, and as such is the only man to ever receive a 10.0 on the official "American Mastodon Gay Meter"*.

Wow, is this man gay or what?

*copyright pending

Monday, October 17, 2005


First and foremost, here is a video of the guy who also happens to be the voice of everyone's favorite aborted baby, "Lil' Markie," singing an inspirational song about Jesus. I think. Actually, I'm not really sure where he's going with this one.

Also, this story in today's Salon, about an author who contacts the man who purchased her old house, reads like a meta-short story. A good one.

I'd write more, but my roomate keeps sending me pictures of Mel Torme, a man he adamantly believes "looks like a retard." I'll let you decide:

Finally, can I get "holla back" from someone who also thinks that Gwen Stefani has really got it going on! Her new shit is A-W-E-S-O-M-E! Am I right? And what about the Black Eyed Peas? They make me want to say "Black Person Please!!" Am I right?

It's just a great time to be a music lover, if you ask me.

Friday, October 14, 2005


The last couple of nights, I've been sifting through this year's edition of The Best American Short Stories. Edited by Michael Chabon, most of the stories I've read so far are surprising and even fun, much like his own writing. You can tell where his interest lies - not in the stuffy offices of academics and critics but in the vivid pages of comic books and among the darkened patches of the forest behind a child's house, where all variety of monsters and murderers live. I was particularly struck by 8 Pieces for the Left Hand, by J. Robert Lennon (possibly an incognito John Lennon?), a collection of vignettes that, when put together, hardly constitutes a short story. Instead, it reads like eight plausible but slightly absurd stories that someone read once, long ago, in a small town paper, then re-told later to someone else. I loved them! They reminded me of Jane Campion's short film Passionless Moments, a film that I humbly paid homage to in my own short film, Second Floor Living. Though, to anyone who has seen my film, I should point out that Jane Campion did not film herself taking a shit in a bathtub, as I so brazenly - and, in hindsight, unfortunately - did in mine.

Actually, Second Floor Living was merely a throw-away film, as I was at the time working on a film of much greater significance, Quarry - a film that solved all of my problems; a film that answered the lingering and proverbial riddle that faces us all: "who am I?"

"Well," I said with my film, "I am a man who makes films about decapitated deer's heads, Native Americans, and young men with severed limbs." If that film accomplished anything, it was the putting to bed of questions about The American Mastodon.

However, with Second Floor Living, the end result held much less importance to me and was therefore prone to the flippant changes of mind and heart endemic to the college student. It was intended, originally, to have the look, feel, and tone of Passionless Moments - that is, a stream of vignettes detailing the mundane, humorous, and somewhat profound moments that strike us all. Indeed, as I had originally intended it, the film would have been a complete and shameless rip-off of Campion's material. I soon realized, though, that filming 11 scenes would have been more difficult than filming four. Also, many of the scenes I had planned for the original film (which had the tentative title 11 Things People Do in Indiana) were to take place in the summer and I had only November in which to shoot it. Additionally, though I was stuck on the number 11, I could only ever think of about seven or eight things that would be make great cinematic vignettes. Finally, and most fatal, one of the scenes would have involved highly illegal and potentially very dangerous actions. I wished to show a scene of young men driving through rural country roads, smashing mail boxes with aluminum baseball bats. We cut to a farmer who has purchased two mail boxes, one very small and one very large. He places the small one inside the large one and fills the empty space between the two with cement. Cutting back to the boys in the car, they tear down the road and one of them swings at the mailbox. The bat ricochets off its hard exterior, flies through the air behind the boys' car and into the other lane where an old woman is driving her old Oldsmobile Cutlass, the bat eventually landing on and shattering her windshield.

How I imagined I could or would shoot that scene, I have no idea. You can see why I chose not to make the film, as other scenes were equally if not more complicated. Now, the reason why I wanted to film that scene was because mailbox baseball was something of an urban legend where I grew up - a "rural legend". I'd heard about it, friends had heard about it, but no one I knew had ever done it and I'd never really seen a shattered mailbox. The cement mailbox seemed like an urban legend as well, though in the story I had originally heard, the boy swung the bat, it caromed off the hardened mailbox and wrapped around the back of his head, knocking him out of the car and onto the side of the road, where he quickly died. Another mailbox baseball story had a boy squarely destroying a mailbox with his bat, turning his head to survey the damage behind him and then connecting with the neighbor's mailbox, a few hundred feet down the road, obliterating his head and killing him, obviously, instantly.

Were these stories true? I don't know. I'm sure someone died at some point because of mailbox baseball, but largely it seemed that the number and detail of these stories were exaggerations - bogeymen to keep the mischievous among us from destroying other people's property; their, if you will, "OPP".

So, why do I bring all of this up? Because one of the Eight Pieces for the Left Hand was precisely this story. The two mailboxes, the cement, the bat swung hard and connecting with the solidified shell, the bat (and here the story slightly deviates) flying into the backseat and killing a passenger, a young girl. It reminded me of my ideas for 11 Things People Do in Indiana, some of which I still remember. And whereas I once took inspiration from Jane Campion, I now realize that the screen might not be the best (or cheapest) arena to broadcast these ideas. So here I sit, considering the ethics of stealing from J. Robert Lennon this idea of intriguing vignettes, compiled together and forming their own beguiling shape, consider stealing his voice, replicating the tone of his dispassionate narrator, his style and his form.

Then, because I am thinking too hard, I fart.

Y'all best reck'nize

Thursday, October 13, 2005


A couple of times, actually, that my last post was bizarre, mean-spirited, and highly offensive. Well, I don't see it like that.

I was merely trying to point out that the two percent of African Americans who approve of Bush are probably crazy. Crazy like the homeless people that live outside the Santa Monica Convention Center kind of crazy.

I suppose what came across was that I am crazy.

To each his own, I suppose. I promise I'll try to actually be funny again at some point.

But still, I thought the line at the end about Arby's was funny.

The American Mastodon

listen to this

Wednesday, October 12, 2005


This article alerts to the fact that only two percent of African-Americans (Afro-Americans to those of you reading this site via time warp) approve of George Bush's job performance as president. Shocking, right! I mean, who the hell are these Uncle Toms? Well, I decided to see for myself. The following is a transcript that I unearthed in which one of the pollsters, hitting the streets of Santa Monica, California, finds one of the few colored people who approve of George Bush.

2:18PM - Santa Monica Civic Center front lawn

POLLSTER: Hello, sir? Sir, could I have a minute of your time?

AFRICAN AMERICAN MAN: Time, time, time is gonna end, gonna be enough time when your dead to talk about time, don't need to rhyme, time is like a dick.

P: Sir, I'd like to ask you a few questions about George Bush.

AAM: Bush, pussy, pussy, dick, stick your dick, sticky dick, get it stuck, up your butt.

P: Ok, well, like I said, about George Bush.

AAM: George Bush is my mother. He wear woman clothes come down here try to make me smoke something I said jumpin jacks, wanna watch me do my jumpin jacks?

P: The first question is, do you think the country is heading in the right direction?

AAM: I plead the fifth amendment officer, I know my rights.

P: Just answer yes or no, sir. Do you think the country is heading in the right direction?

AAM: Yes I do believe that the Lord God will come down to earth and bake you a apple pie, drop it from the sky, say mmmMM!

P: Yes or no, do you approve of the way the president is handling the war on terror.

AAM: Yes, yep, yup, yop, give me a chocolate covered ice cream pop. HAHA!

P: Yes or no, do you approve of the way the president is handling the budget?

AAM: Do I look like a punk? I used to go to COLLEGE! Hell yes I did I was gonna be a writer but then they started spyin on me with their telescopes. The Russians, too!

P: Yes or no, do you approve of the way the president is handling the hurricane relief effort?

AAM: Do I look like I want crack?

P: Sir?

AAM: Do it look like I do?

P: Well, is that your answer to the question, or are you asking me?

AAM: (laughing, putting his arm around the pollster) Man, you ayight dog. You cool as shit you and me gotta hang out, man, I showed you my sister she probably suck yo dick, HAHA! Say yeah, man, yeah, yeah yeah yeah. She real nasty, do all kind a shit.

P: Yes or no, do you approve of the president's overall job performance?

AAM: I told you million times, man, didn't I? Fuck you you don't remember. I said yes your honor, yes your honor, please your honor, go easy on me, I got kids, your honor, I said, I lose my job your honor, I got nothing your honor, I said yes your honor I did them things but come on your honor be reasonable and look at you now? He be laughing and you dressed up like a chump. Show you who the real crazy nigga is. Come on, now. You know me, you know me, you don't got to blow me, just to know me.

P: Thank you for your time. Now, would you be willing to give me your name, your age, and your political affiliation?

AAM: My name is suck my big black cock, I'm suck my big black cock years old, and I don't affixiate no politics, I don't want to see no small white ass dicks, just get with dirty chicks, lots of punches and kicks, red bricks, shit be hot out here. You thirsty? Get me a burger at Burger King? I'm hungry, man. Fries, something, anything? Arby's?


Telly from Kids, after hearing that suicide bombers find a place in heaven with grapes and wine and 72 "gazelle-eyed" virgins, has a conversation with his friend, Casper.

Telly: Waddup, yo?
Casper: Hey fucker.
Telly: I got something on my mind, I've been thinking about.
Casper: Rap at me.
Telly: When you're young, not much matters. When you find something that you care about, then that's all you got. When you go to sleep at night you dream of pussy. When you wake up it's the same thing. It's there in your face. You can't escape it. Sometimes when you're young the only place to go is inside. That's just it - fucking is what I love. Take that away from me and I really got nothing.
Casper: I hear that.
Telly: Did you know that Islamic martyrs, when they die, they go to heaven and are surrounded by virgins for eternity?
Casper: Really? But don't you have to kill yourself?
Telly: But like, if you deflower a girl man, man, you're the man. No one can ever do that again. You're the only one. No one, no one, has the power to do that again.
Casper: Right. The way I see it. My outlook on the situation. It's like getting fame, you know what I'm saying? Say you was to die tomorrow right, fifty years from now all the virgins you ever fucked are gonna remember you. Right? They gonna tell their grandkids about that shit.
Telly: Right. Only you're in heaven.
Casper: Yeah, and they're all yours. No need to be worrying about diseases and shit.
Telly: Condoms don't work. They either break, or they slip off, or they make your dick shrink. Nah, but you still gotta use em, yo. At least I did once.
Casper: I hear that.
Telly: Virgins. I love 'em. No diseases, no loose as a goose pussy, no skank. No nothin. Just pure pleasure.
Casper: How do you think those bitches smell up in heaven?
Telly: The perfect virgin bitches with the gazelle eyes?
Casper: Them's the ones.
Telly: Like butterscotch, yo.

If I knew how to do photoshop, I'd draw a fake beard on his face and a turban on his head and dynamite sticks poking out from underneath a jacket. But I don't. But I do have an awesome friend, Barry Kailey, who made this picture for me:

Tuesday, October 11, 2005


Once, there was a man who enjoyed going to the theatre.

One day, after taking in a show of "Guys and Dolls," he fell ill. His sister visited him and cared for him. She held his hand and felt the grip loosen as his soul passed from his body to the ether and then on into heaven.

Time has passed and people have forgotten the man who loved plays. Perhaps, someday, there will be another. Perhaps he will love the theatre as much as the man who died in the arms of his sister.

Although, I doubt it. I mean seriously.

The end.

Monday, October 10, 2005


Print this out and read it.

JT LeRoy is like Jandek, if Jandek made better music.

Oh, and if Jandek had made up stories about being sexually abused as a child and pimped to johns by his mother at gas stations and truck stops in West Virginia and across the south and then used that created self-history to garner money and fame and success, instead of just making albums in a garage somewhere outside of Houston and sending them out to college radio stations.

I'm sorry, am I confusing you?

What I mean to say is this: JT LeRoy can go fuck himself, and Jandek is awesome.

Also: how crazy is this picture of a skeleton (of the skeletons?) of conjoined twins?

Friday, October 07, 2005


Today you will be rewarded, children, because today I give you links:

1) Lil Markie's Song - You know how every once in awhile you hear about how there was a Christian Rock concert somewhere in Nebraska and thousands of people attended? And you're all like, "Wow, I had no idea people actually listened to Christian Rock?" Well, apparently, there are and they do. (note: I do not, obviously. Not even a little. Not even Stryper.) Did you also know, however, that "Abortion Rock" also has a large following? If not, be sure to listen to Lil Markie's dope jam.

2) The Post Show - A couple of guys in New York make little skits and put them on the internet. They only have three up so far, and they sort of go in ascending order of awesomeness. Though the second skit starts a little slow, it really pays off at the end. Trust me, little rabbits, you will not be disappointed!

Ok, I was going to post more links but whatever. I'm tired.

Thursday, October 06, 2005


Yesterday I expressed some opinions of mine pertaining to the news that Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise are expecting a child. You laughed at my words and nodded your heads in agreement, and then you moved on. Today I will continue, for the second and final day, evaluating and critiquing the world around us. Why do I do this? Because I should, because it is an obligation; to those whom much is given, much is expected. If I did not say these things, who would? Probably some other blogger, and you don't read other blogs, so how would you ever know? See that right there? That's the level of logic and rational thought you've come to expect from me, and I'm happy to provide it.

Today I'm going to talk about blogs, specifically Nick Denton and his shoddy stable of gift horses. No, wait - come back! Just hear me out, briefly. Then I'll leave you be for the day and tomorrow write something more in tune with the indefatigable style of The American Mastodon - slightly personal, slightly odd, slightly humorous, slightly humorless, and more than, if not completely, incorrect.

So, to begin: this morning I perused one of my favorite websites, Metafilter, and came upon a discussion regarding AOL's recent acquistion of Weblogs, Inc. for $25 million. Truth be told, I don't really know what Weblogs, Inc. is, though I believe it's similar to the Denton Gawker Empire, in that it consists of a group of people in New York blogging all day. Income is generated through advertising. The blogs themselves are about, well, I already told you - I don't know what they're about. Probably either a) gossip, b) technology, c) sex, d) sports, e) pop culture or f) politics. Now, it was asked in the Metafilter thread, "I wonder what Nick Denton thinks of all this," the point being: since his Empire got passed over, I wonder if he feels a bit angry or a bit depressed that AOL did not offer him $25 million. Then someone linked to Nick Denton's blog, where he says the following:

Blog acquisitions - The acquisition of WIN by AOL is exhilirating news, in many respects, most of which I shouldn't list here. For what it's worth, Gawker isn't for sale. The whole point about blogs is that they're not part of big media. Consolidation defeats the purpose. It's way too early. Like a decade too early.

Now, I'm all for integrity and the fight against the consolidation of media. I'm glad that blogs offer a variety of viewpoints and that personal expression has become so easy and immediate. But how - and this is a sincere question for which I hope to receive a sincere answer - how can this guy simultaneously talk about the social or journalistic importance of not acquiescing to big media and keep a straight face? In what fucking universe are "big media" and twenty posts a day that end with "and that's when Tara Reid's publicist shit herself" even in the same fucking ballpark? Even worse, he attempts to defend his company from selling out by playing the integrity card. Worse than that is the fact that I'm not sure, precisely, who he's using the integrity card against, since it seems that no one has yet offered him $25 million.

Here's an analogy. You're familiar with the song "Who Let the Dogs Out?" by the Baha Men, correct? Now, do you think that when the Baha Men were writing that song and performing it, they thought to themselves, "You know, it would be great to sell this song and make some money, but right now, we're only about the music. It's important to us to make quality songs and keep our integrity, and to not sell out. We're about the music first, the money second."

Well, of course they didn't think that. They thought, "Holy shit this is a shit song, but who knows? We just may make about thirty yacht-fulls of money with this crap."

In other words, "selling out", as it is used in our vernacular, is not applied to something that has, since its inception, been created for the sole purpose of making money. No one claims that Goodyear "sells out" when they release a newly designed tire - "Dude, the original Aquatreads were way better than the 2006 version - back then, man, those guys were just making tires for the pure love of traction."

So why, Nick Denton, why do you insist on being a douche? If you really believe that "consolodation defeats the purpose," why do you continue to create more blogs? And if Gawker isn't for sale, how precisely do you make your money?

Truth be told, I don't really care about this stuff. Sometimes a co-worker will forward me a Defamer post, which is actually a great site, but other that I don't remember actively going to a Denton Blog site. I certainly don't care as much as, say, this guy does. In fact, I'm sure that Nick Denton is nice, normal guy, doing what we're all doing: looking to make a buck and have fun doing it.

But I also believe that the quote he posted today on his website just goes to show you how deluded anyone will become when they insulate themselves in an environment of sycophants and desperate fameaholics. If Denton had said, "Shit, man, good for Weblogs, Inc. $25 million is a shitload of money, and I wish someone would offer me that," then at least I would have proof that he's not a douche instead of having to suspect it.

To sum:

Dear Nick Denton:

Your blogs will not save the world. They may make celebrities feel bad about themselves for being normal, they may give a small but fleeting feeling of superiority to receptionists, or they may alert us to the newest Japanese schoolgirl porn site, but they're not going to change the way journalists report actual news any more than "Who Let the Dogs Out" is going to change the way Wilco writes their music.

Your goal has been to make money, right? Why attach this self-important moralism to it? Be indie or be rich, holmes. Also, don't front.

Keep the peace,

The American Mastodon

This totally awesome picture of a python that burst after trying to eat an alligator is a valuable metaphor to describe blogs and "big media", though I'm not really sure, exactly, how. But seriously, isn't this a sweet picture?

Wednesday, October 05, 2005


I'm not much one to chatter or gossip about the latest celebrity news. In fact, it's hard for me to imagine anything more soul-sickening than spending your day mongering gossip and exposing the small faults of people that we, as a culture, hold in esteem; pettiness begets sadness, and I for one choose to look at the greatness around us - what some call "God's gifts" and what I call "breasts". But really, that is just a joke at my own expense. I do not mean to be a prude or a man of pretension.

Occassionally, however, a celebrity story will break through my mind's semi-permeable orb of perpetual wonder - a somewhat mucousy membrane that prevents frivolity and self-righteous schadenfruede. Today I read that Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are expecting a child, and I sincerely feel a deep sadness for this young woman, not much older than I, who is choosing to have her first child with Mr. Cruise. For who now, after the evidence is in and the jury has ruled; after it can be certainly ascertained that Mr. Cruise is not a homosexual and the couple has had sex at least once - I ask you: what brave man will dare ever stick his prized phallus in her now-putrid, violated and unwholesome hole of love?

I repeat. The evidence is in and Mr. Cruise is not a homosexual. He has, in fact, impregnated Katie Holmes.

Do you remember how our souls were shaken when we discovered the atrocities that occured in Rwanda? We said, "Never again." But then Darfur happened and we were shamed. We said, "Never again." Yet here we are, shamed once more, shamed by the fact that we could have done something - anything but watch the all-too-real drama unfold before us on our television screens like hapless sacks of stinky shit - but we did nothing. Our hands are dirty, friends.

But as dirty as our hands are, we are the cleanest virgin silk next to Ms. Holmes. You have done yourself no favors, Katie. You have asked the serpent man with his pickled member to plant his thetan seed deep within your loins. No number of Narconon sessions will remove those toxins from your body; no auditing will clear the memory of his small, toothy body over yours.

It is true, yes, we are ashamed. But shame comes only from an absence of pride. Shame tells one that he has failed; it corrects him, fortifies him. You have no shame, Ms. Holmes. You have no shame because you have no pride. You are less than us. We pity you not because we hope for you a better life but rather because you are beneath us. Do I feel poorly when the mites and termites are killed by the exterminator? No, I don't. I'm happy that my house is clean and free of grubs.

You are a grub. You are insignificant. I spit on you. Wait - no I don't. I don't spit on you because I don't care. I don't even know who you are. Katie who? Tom Cruise huh?

Never again. Never again.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005


First of all, apologies for leaving that last post up so long. I know that most of you had requested I leave it up long enough so that you could print it out and send it to friends, hyperlink to your own blogs, and forward it on to your local and state representatives. Well, folks, the party's over. You'll have to head to the archives to get your strange, creepy, "why did he write that," homo-charged, political thrills from now on.

Hey, anybody watch or listen to Bush's press conference this morning? Does it seem to you that he always learns a new word before a press conference and then tries to see how many times he can use the new word? I think it was obvious that today's new word was "opine". "Lot a people wanna 'opine' bout Harriet Miers' qualifications, but you can only 'opine' so long before you gotta do something besides 'opinin' and I think that's why the Senate will approve Harriet Miers as the next Supreme Court Justice."

I had a really weird dream last night. Do you want me tell you about it? No? Not even a quick synopsis? No, really? Ok, fine, well, don't come crawling to me to tell me about your dreams, then. Oh, you won't, huh? Right, like you never try to tell me about your dreams. Ok, you want me to tell you a time when you did? What is this, an inquisition? I'm just saying, don't expect any favors. And frankly, I bet your dreams are boring. I bet they're all like, "ooh, look at me, I'm flying through the frosty February air on a beautiful unicorn," and, "hey look at this, I'm swimming in a sea of frothy, delicious pudding and I'm surrounded by lusty and virginous women," which really, man, are totally obviously just dreams you made up, because you know that I don't want to hear what your real dreams are about, dreams which really creep you out, like kissing that retarded girl that used to sit next to you in seventh grade history class or robbing nursing homes with your dead grandfather and killing all of the old people inside while they watch "The Natural" on the pay-per-view channel or living in some weird colony on Mars where all the people are half-Asian, half-wolf and you are their king but there are grumblings amongst your men so you flee in your space pod to another planet but instead of reaching your destination you get sucked into some time warp fold in the universe and then you're back on earth in the year 1819, a merchant in the harbor at Tangiers, selling incense and flowers but you have no tongue and you have no clothes and then you are running after some strange woman in a purple calico dress, but always too slow, you can never run fast enough to catch her, and then you wake up sweating.

So just don't even try to tell me shit like that, because I don't care.