Thursday, March 31, 2005


Interesting World

Editor, Times-Union:

The other day while listening to my usual lineup of talk show hosts, I decided to take a drive. Friends and neighbors have been talking about the school construction, so I decided to take a look. In driving through the area, I was very impressed.

Some of the construction was a little difficult to see as I was afraid of bumping into one of the several hundred cars in the student parking lot. Leaving the construction site, I made a wrong turn and found myself driving through one of the upscale housing developments. Did I see the evidence of a prosperous community?

I then headed for the farm house we have called home for 57 years. Ninety years ago, I'm told, my grandfather spent the summer moving the house over a quarter of a mile to its present site. He moved it on rolling logs pulling it with horses. As I entered the house the phone was ringing.

A telemarketer wanted to discuss some mortgage agreement. I thought of offering them prospective customers for a commission, but decided against it. I found my easy chair trying to figure it all out while waiting for suppertime. It is truly an interesting world in which we are living. Thank you for reading this.

Bob Plummer
Mastodon City


You may remember that a couple of weeks ago I introduced a new segment to the pages of America's greatest blog, The American Mastodon, which just so happens to be this blog, the one you're reading, in which I sought to describe a complex and intricate phenomenon of which I had only a tenuous understanding. The hope, at the time, was that the post would be either marginally humorous or, perhaps even more entertaining, people with actual knowledge of the topic at hand would correct and reprimand my dilletantism in the comments section of the post. Unfortunately, neither happened, and with the exception of a snide comment from a weak and leprous boy from Mumbai named "Jimmy Saffron", the entry was largely ignored. Today I take it upon myself to resurrect the feature and describe for you today, to the best of my ability, the story of a man named Jesus Christ.

Jesus Christ was born in a manger in a stable in Bethlehem, over which there was a large star. Wise men came with gifts to give to the parents, Mary and Joseph, though Joseph wasn't Jesus' father, biologically speaking. Mary was a virgin and God inseminated her, and when Jesus was born - surprise - God was nowhere to be found and didn't even leave an address. Joseph was a good man, however, and raised Jesus as his own son, though like any father of an adoptive child, he was a little resentful of Him. Not to mention the fact that Jesus' real father was God, which I'm assuming would make any guy feel pretty small.

Jesus caught on to the "Savior" thing pretty quickly, and at a very early age could be seen at various temples and hillsides preaching to the masses. Then, when He turned twelve, Jesus either went to Asia and studied Eastern religions or he went to North America and taught the Indians about God. (I know, it's a real toss-up!) Though, to be fair to the religion which I will not name but whose adherents believe that after they die they will all populate their own planets, I guess He could have flown to North America or something, like Superman, as He is God's son, but you do know, I hope, that back then they didn't real have boats that could navigate the Atlantic Ocean?

Woah! Didn't mean to editorialize there!

Either way you slice it, Jesus comes back to the Holy Land when He's around thirty and at this point, the dude's got some mad wisdom on His shoulders. He loves a lot of whores and stuff, and works his mojo and makes some miracles, and tells some parables that don't really make sense, like the one about how no matter when the workers on the farm started working during that one day, they all got paid the same, and I mean, I get that the story is about Heaven, but it always just seemed to me like the people who worked longer should have gotten paid more, because they worked harder, and fair is fair.

The rest of the story is basically the plot of the film, "The Last Temptation of Christ", which involves a lot of pain and blood and evil-looking Jews and statuesque-looking Romans. Jesus dies on the cross, and God cries, and then Jesus goes into Hell to find all of the sinners that died before Jesus came to earth, and then Jesus comes back to life and then he ascends to heaven. Whew! What a weekend!!

Today, the legacy of Jesus is vibrant and alive, and can be witnessed most accurately through the actions and intentions of the Republican Party of the United States.

This is a brief history of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.


One of my favorite Mitch Hedberg jokes was, "when I go to the bathroom to shave, I say 'I'm going to shave, too!', because it just seems like somewhere in the world, someone else must be shaving as well."

If this turns out to be a heroin overdose, then fuck you, Mitch.

Mitch Hedberg: funny man, sweetheart, stoner, deceased.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005


A minute ago, but Wow. Just, wow. I had never heard of the punk rocker/defecator/rapist GG Allin before. Here's an interview.

GA: So you don't have any "favorite" shows, really...

GG: No, they're all great. At the Cat Club in New York once, this isn't even the show yet, I'm in the ladies' room tryin' to get someone to piss in my mouth, and this chick thought she's being tough and she pulls out her tampon, and I just ate it right it front of her, just swallowed the thing. They couldn't believe it. That night, someone said, "This is New York, you're not gonna surprise anyone here." They were talking about that show in the Village Voice for two months straight afterward. One time someone threw a dead cat up onstage and I tried to fuck it. Every show could be the last one.


I was way off on what I thought this article was going to be about:

What's So Good About Sex? Ask Yeast


Huzzah!! Yesterday was a glorious day for those of us who hate animals and love excessive violence, for it marked the opening day of Canada's annual seal hunt, in which it is predicted over 300,000 harp seals (95% of which are between 12 days and 12 weeks old) will be clubbed to death on ice floes off the country's eastern coast. Some people, whom I shall refer to as "total whiners", think that the practice is barbaric and overly cruel. The Canadian government, on the other hand, notes in an essay entitled "The Science Behind the Seal Hunt", that "the harp seal herd — the most important seal herd for this industry — is estimated at around five million animals, nearly the highest level ever recorded, and almost triple what it was in the 1970s." It goes on to point out that the country "establishes a healthy baseline for the hunt that ensures a seal herd of 70 per cent of the current population of around five million. Our goal is simple: to maintain a healthy, strong, sustainable population for years to come."

In other words, the hunt does more than provide income and job stability to a poverty-stricken and isolated region, or uphold centuries-old indigenous practices and tradition. The hunt is properly researched beforehand, much like hunts during deer season in America, so that the overall population does not get out of hand and thus reach a critical point where resources are too thin to support a healthy and vibrant population.

It was also reported today that Australia is encouraging its citizens to have more children as their "patriotic duty", two-thirds of the earth's resources have been used up, and the world's population will continue to rise to unfathomable levels as we put a greater and greater strain on the world's ecosystems, thus increasing the chances for natural disasters and all but ensuring an eventual shortage of natural resources.

A brave hunter helps ensure the fitness and longevity of Canada's Harp Seal population.

These orphans whose parents died of AIDS are a reminder that God hates condoms and those who use them will go to Hell. Keep screwing unsafely, Africa, India, Mexico, and Mormons!

Tuesday, March 29, 2005


Seriously, people. Get on it.

Does it get any better? No.


1) A former top official of the Boy Scouts of America faces federal Internet child pornography charges and is expected to plead guilty Wednesday, a spokeswoman for the U.S. attorney's office said.

2) Two months after being elected by voters who braved terrorist bombs to make their voice heard, Iraq’s lawmakers failed to make any progress on forming a government yesterday at the second sitting of the new Iraqi parliament.


Late last week I assembled a list of people/actions/things that offended my well-honed sensibilities. Here is the addendum to that list, providing a more complete picture of that which enrages me:

1) Married chicks that let you hit on them for hours before telling you, or before you find out yourself, that they're married
I'm not saying that this has happened to me. Or that it has happened to me recently. Or that it happened last night. But I am saying that it's lame. Look: you're married. Yeah, I know. It sucks. I'm sure it does. Uh-huh. Right. Oh, so the two of you aren't getting along? Ok, that's good to know. And obviously it's tough on any woman to not be able to spend their nights and days with me. I wouldn't know myself, but I can imagine. Sure. Yep. I hear ya. I completely agree - I also think 19 is way too young to swap rings. But let's be honest. I think maybe, just maybe, it says a little something, about you, that you got married before you could legally drink alcohol. Like, maybe you're a little crazy? I don't know, I'm just thinking out loud here. Anyway, I like not getting the shit kicked out of me. Also, I like not being wracked with guilt and shame. I am good man, and I will not make cuckolds of those around me.

2) Terry Schiavo protestors
Do I even need to say it? You are all truly awful people. When the family asked you to please go home so they could spend the last days with their daughter in peace, you thought it was more important to make a sign from supplies you got at Michaels, give it to your 11-year old son, and try to get him on CNN. Trust me, if there's a God, I'm guessing that you're getting on his nerves. You know, maybe it's time you started thinking about getting back to work. I'm sure everyone at the office really misses you.

3) People who make fun of my allergies
I shouldn't really put this on the list, because I'm so used to it that it just sort of washes over me, but it's amusing to me that everytime someone meets me and finds out I have lethal allergies to (variety of foods), they make a joke about putting a (piece of one of a variety of foods) in my (piece of food I'm currently eating) when I'm not looking, thus making me ingest something that would send me into anaphylactic shock, swell my throat shut, boil my skin, dissolve my eyeballs, and shoot blood out of my pores. It's not that I think it's not funny, or that it hurts my feelings or anything. I mean, sure it's kind of funny. And I can take it. But what really irks me is that everyone does it, without fail, and everyone thinks they're clever because they're showing me how much they enjoy my company by letting me know they're just kidding about killing me - and hey, if we can joke about that, we're pretty good fucking friends, right? Sure, I guess so. Whatever.

4) People who care about women's basketball
My mom watches a few women's college baskteball games because there is a girl on Tennessee's team that used to live close to where we're from. She's good and my mom likes to see her do well. But the other day on the phone I was successful in getting my mother to admit that watching women's basketball is, more than anything, a chore. And if my mom's not behind you, trust me, you don't have much of a chance. Seriously, how can anyone watch women playing basketball, on any level, with a straight face? Women's tennis I can understand. Women's soccer, you might convince me. But basketball? Women's basketball? Come on. I mean, come on.

5) Old people who work shitty jobs
Yesterday a coworker and I headed to the local mall at lunchtime and dove into the Banana Republic for a little shoe-shoppin'. Who was there to greet us at the entrance, pushing the latest styles and showcasing the tight fit of the finest BR clothes? Would it be a sprightly and gay young Italian named Maurizio? Perhaps a buxome young Ethiopian beauty clad in black? No. There to peddle the wares of a trendy clothier was a seventy year old man named Elmer, hard of hearing and wearing a cotton knit shirt straight out of the pages of the J.C. Penney catalogue. Shouldn't you be retired, old man? You make me sad. I don't want to work at Banana Republic now, let alone when I'm starting have great-grandchildren. And this is only the latest personal example in what is an alarming trend. Lowe's. Home Depot. Arby's. Why are all the old people fixing my sandwiches and helping me get those lightbulbs on the top shelf? Stop degrading yourselves. I mean, come on, you're the Greatest Generation. Start acting like it.

Monday, March 28, 2005


Man Won’t Exit Vehicle; Dies In Fire
BY JEN GIBSON, Times-Union Staff Writer

MASTODON CITY – One man is dead following a crash on Turkey Creek Road outside Mastodon City limits Saturday evening.

Scott W. Halsey, 33 of Mastodon City, was pronounced dead at the scene of the accident at 10273 N. Turkey Creek Road.

Halsey was allegedly driving erratically and hit several mailboxes before running into a ditch and coming to rest on top of a cement anchor for a mailbox. He reportedly became abusive, yelling obscenities at officers, and refused to get out of the vehicle.

Witnesses saw smoke coming from Halsey’s 1958 Chrysler and tried to get him out of the vehicle. Despite efforts to pull Halsey out of the car, he would not exit the vehicle. Eventually the flames became too intense and people trying to remove him from the car had to move away while he continued to yell obscenities and told bystanders to leave him alone.

When firemen arrived at the scene, the car was engulfed in flames.

Police do not know why Halsey refused to leave the vehicle. He was pronounced dead at the scene of the crash.

According to a Mastodon County Sheriff’s Office report, Halsey’s wife Michelle told officers that Scott had been having trouble regulating and managing his blood sugar levels. She talked to him shortly before the crash and said Scott sounded like he was having problems at that time.

The incident remains under investigation by the Indiana State Police and the Mastodon County Sheriff’s Department.


If you're going to try to convince me that Africa isn't as zany as it seems in the The Gods Must Be Crazy movies, Mr. Reuters Man, you're going to have to try a lot harder than this.


For anyone who has been following, or is at the least aware of, the Minuteman volunteer project along the U.S. - Mexico border, this article is pretty interesting. Also, a little scary.

Friday, March 25, 2005


People, I'm fine. Maybe I sounded a little bitter in that last post, but I'm - I'm -I'm - I'm just being honest. And though I appreciate the concern in your emails: "Why are you so angry?" "You seem so...jaded." "What does it take to cheer you up?", rest assured that all is not doom and gloom in my life, and certainly, there are many things in this world that put a smile on my face. Let this list be the ying to my previous post's yang.

Things I dig:

1) House, M.D.
I don't watch situational shows on television, except occassionally Arrested Development. I trend toward the reality television/sports/Food Network-esque programming. But man, I'm really gay for House. He's Princeton's most brilliant doctor, and every week he finds a way to save a person's life. Of course, being so intelligent, he's a natural misanthrope and hates most everyone he meets. You can see why I like this show. I'm a brilliant doctor and I hate people. But lord. I love House.

2) Boobs
This should be pretty obvious. I don't have them myself, which naturally adds to their allure, but in addition to that there's just something about them that makes me just adore them. I'm actually even more gay for boobs than I am for House, if you can believe it. In fact, there are times when I search the internet for pictures of them, or scour through friend's pornographic magazines to bear witness to their physical splendor. I mean, I know they're just boobs. But come on. Boobs. I love boobs.

3) Direction
Last night as I drove home from The Decemberists show, I heard Stand by R.E.M. on the radio. I've always been sort of out of the loop when it came to that song, because when Stipe demands, "Think about direction, wonder why you haven't before," I remember thinking, the first time I ever heard the song, "but I always think about direction. I haven't not wondered about direction before." I just really like maps and knowing where I am. I love direction.

4) Puppies
I know it's a cliche, but puppies are really cute. In fact, if you're a puppy, then you're pretty much golden in my book. How do they have so much energy? How can they love life so much? All they want is to be outside, run around, chew things, and play catch. These are, largely, things that I also want to do. I can only hope that if I'm a good enough person in this life, I will come back as a puppy. The thing is: I really love puppies.

Happy Good Friday everyone!! Er, wait. I guess today is when the Jews killed the baby Jesus. Hmmm. That reminds me.

5) The baby Jesus
It's kind of hard not to love the baby Jesus. I mean He is the son of God, for goodness gracious. That's enough for anyone to stand on, but the cool thing about Jesus is that he wasn't content with being God's only Son. He did so much more than that, like washing our sins away, and rising from the dead, and feeding the multitudes, and loving a bunch of whores and stuff. Listen: never forget that JC was an outlaw who was persecuted by the state. In other words, if you're going to be a badass, do it Jesus style, with a lot of love, a soft voice, a robe, some sandals and a kickin' beard. I really, really love the baby Jesus.

Go eat some chocolate crosses, everyone!!


Here are some things I don't care for:

1) People who limp
I don't like being injured, but if and when I am, I try to get better quickly. I certainly don't flaunt the fact that I'm temporarily gimpy. Yet here I look around and I see people almost begging me to notice that they're limping. Mostly, I see them directly in front of me when I'm trying to get somewhere quickly. Get out of the way, you ass. I hate you people that limp. Get over yourselves.

2) Lance Armstrong bracelets
I remember the first time that I saw a Lance Armstrong bracelet, and how much it incensed me. I was in a Bob Evans with my parents, and the waitress pouring our coffee had a hideously bright, yellow plastic piece of crap around her wrist dangling dangerously close to my drink. I asked what it was, knowing that people that have either stupid bracelets or those little ribbons on their lapel live to be noticed and to be asked why they do the douche things they do, and she smugly stated that it was to raise awareness for cancer. The fuck? Like we don't all know about cancer. Like we don't all hate it. You need a bracelet to tell me that you're not a fan of cancer? You think if you're not wearing a bracelet I'm going to assume that you endorse and encourage the spread of cancer? Seriously, I hate all you people that wear Lance Armstrong bracelets. He left his wife and kids to fuck Sheryl Crow. Get over yourselves, you're assheads.

3) Cashing foodstamps in the grocery line
Do you understand why I got in this line? Because it was the shortest. Because all I have is a box of twinkies and a 2 liter of Dr. Pepper. I just want to go home. And now I see why the line is so short. Because you're buying groceries for your family, your brother's family, your daughter's family, and your boyfriend's family. Oh, great, and you're also paying for it all in foodstamps and those weird receipt things. I mean, yeah, I kind of feel bad and all for you, but fuck. Can't you just go to Aldi or something? Seriously, I hate all you people that make me wait in line at the market. Get a job.

4) Science teachers that don't believe in evolution
I can't believe that this is even an issue. Evolution fucking happened! The earth is really, really fucking old! I don't care if you believe in God or not. In fact, I'm down with the G-O-D. I think He's the dope. But guess what? I do care if you teach science and you don't believe in evolution, because you're an idiot and you're teaching kids to be idiots. Look at it this way, cheesedicks: if you don't understand how evolution happened, just think of it as another one of God's mysterious, inexplicable doings that you can't comprehend, like when the will of God "made" that tsunami and it killed hundreds of thousands of people. In the same way, you don't need to understand how we came from mud to know that it makes a lot of sense to really smart people, like me. I hate you people that think the geologic evidence supporting the earth's age of 4 billion years is just information placed here by Satan to confuse your faith. Get over yourself!

5) The War on Terror
I hate terrorism as much as the next guy. I really do! But is it that necessary to go to war with countries that - oops! - don't have the weapons we thought they had, only to reward the penisfaces that harbored bin Laden (and probably still are) and who allow men to rape, burn, and stone to death adulterous women in their villages? I hate you people that don't see how awful and ridiculous and soul-crushing this all, fuck it, I'm just kidding - of course I think it's cool! I love America! Go us!

Of course, there are many more things that irritate me, but I guess I should work for awhile now. Stay tuned, I may return this afternoon with an extended list.

Love you all!!

Thursday, March 24, 2005


I'm getting quite excited, as after work I'm to head off to see The Decemberists play at the Henry Fonda. I believe that the last time I was this "stoked" to see a show was when I saw The Arcade Fire, which was of course ruined by the preposterously unenthusiastic Los Angeles crowd. At times, it's hard to tell if you're in the country's second largest city, watching a rock and roll band, or whether you're in a classroom in Boise, Idaho watching the county spelling bee.

Pssst. Los Angeles. Yeah, you. Come here. Hey, music is fun. Really, it is. Watch me - you ready? See, I'm dancing. Try it. Go ahead. Good job! Really, it's all about having a good time. It's ok, seriously. No one will judge. Actually, scratch that. Everyone will judge. But - and here's the thing - it doesn't matter. Just take a look around. See, they're all penisfaces, just like you! Isn't that comforting? That guy next to you wants to direct music videos, the girl in front of you wants to be an actress, and you want to be a graphic designer. See! Penisfaces all around!! Now that we've got that cleared up, all is sexcellent and the rocking can proceed. Balls - watch yourself! I don't want you skittering off, now, hear! Yeeeaaaoowwwhwhaahaaa!!

I've got to say, I'm really impressed with this new album. It's - and I know this is getting close to parody, but it's true - what I've always hoped a Decemberists album would be. There are no songs (or 3 or 4) that I skip over, and this morning driving into work I almost cried as I listened to From My Own True Love (Lost at Sea). They write great lyrics, and great songs, and the lead singer has a great voice, but most importantly, they write about things like churches and the sea and concentration camps and architects and other things I find interesting.

You come from parents wanton
A childhood rough and rotten
I come from wealth and beauty
Untouched by work or duty

I found you, a tattooed tramp
A dirty daugher from the labour camp
I laid you down on the grass of a clearing
You wept but your soul was willing


Once, I was strong. Today I am weak. I have lost my will to fight. In the face of endless oppression and suffocating incredulity, I did not stand and fight but crumbled, fell to their feet, a pile of shattered hopes. For so long I resisted their ways; many times I spoke up against them - many times I showed that I would not consent to their audacity, their buffoonery.

But there was no doubting the words that escaped my lips today. Instead of, "Small coffee, please," came the horrifying refrain, "Tall drip."

Tall drip!! They have broken me like a horse!

I cannot say that I am not ashamed. I cannot say that I am not the most disappointed of us all. I can say, however, with renewed vigor, that I will do my best to continue the fight. One day we will prevail, people of America, for good is like water and evil is like fire. Except for when fire boils all the water away and it evaporates. I mean more like when water is doused on fire. But not oil or grease fires. Just regular fires.

Then, good is like water.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005


If there's one thing that constantly swirls through my mind in the wee hours of the night, keeping me awake until the light of dawn breaks upon my sill, it's "Why do so many people love and adore my blog?" After I answer that question, I ask myself another question, which is, "Will I always be able to know exactly what people want, and I can keep giving it to them?" Satisfied with my answer to that question, I then ask, "What would happen if I were involved in an accident - would they be ok without my words, without my wisdom?" to which I have yet to find a suitable answer, and then I ask, "Is it true they can reverse a vasectomy?" and then I ask, "Is my leg asleep?" and then I sit up nervously, sweating, and shout to my roommate, "Hey C--!! Are you there!! Will you hold me?"

But during the day, as I sit at my desk and slowly change the world for the better, I am stricken with another, more relevant question: "Where did Patch Adams go, and will he make us laugh again?"


I've noticed - thanks to my remarkable skills of observation and perception - that bloggers like to post what they're listening to, reading, and watching on tv. I can understand the urge - you want people to think you're cool because you listen to Modest Mouse or you're reading that new book by that one guy that's a really great writer, man, he writes about pop culture and drugs and about growing up in the suburbs but it's really cynical and hilarious, man, it's not like a book at all, it's like a really great magazine with all these little essays in it - but I can't endorse the urge. The fact is, I don't care if you listen to N.W.A. or Amy Grant. You're a blogger, and because of that, you're pretty lame. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it! It's true!

Or maybe the reason they do it is because they're searching for a kindred spirit, and the broadcast of their current culture consumption is like a beacon to the world at large. Have you ever searched Friendster profiles for a specific town or place? Try it sometime. It's kind of sad. You quickly realize that in cyberspace, there are more lonely, 45 year old lesbians living alone in mobile homes than you might think, and they alone outnumber all other demographics by a *cough* hefty margin.

But again, as happens so often on this site, I digress. My intention is to post for you my own current consumption of pop delights, though to make it interesting, I ask you: which of these things is not like the other?

Listening to:
Iron and Wine - Woman King EP
Jezebel is the best song I've heard in a long time. It's really amazing, and I love how the piano comes in at the end, like it's been woken up by the rest of the song, and it's really slow, a little behind the rest of the song, but it's trying to catch up. Brilliant stuff.

Zootrope - All Story
I didn't know who Rick Bass is, but after reading his short story, The Lives of Rocks, I feel like I should. His bio in the back of the magazine reads: "Rick Bass is the author of twenty-one books of fiction and non-fiction, including the novel Where the Sea Used to Be. He lives in northwest Montana's Yaak Valley, where he's active with a number of local organizations seeking wilderness protection for the last roadless areas in the Kootenai National Forest." People like this don't have blogs. They have lives.

Dances With Wolves, Collector's Edition DVD
In this historically accurate film, Lt. John Dunbar is a Civil War hero who comes to understand the beauty of the Indian way of life, as he lives and fights with them through many seasons. This film is not only truthful in its representation of the Native American way of life, but it also shows that the white man viewed the Indians as a spiritual, wonderful tribe of people that lived in harmony with their surroundings. Ultimately, the story of John Dunbar is not just the story of one man: it is the story of literally no men who saw the Indians for what they truly were and how they truly lived.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005


What are you going to do when the bird flu comes knocking at your door? Thankfully, I've been too busy these past few years to return my bunker, generator, and small arms cache I accumulated during the Y2K scare. Also, the meat I have hanging in my smokeroom should be nice and cured by now, and I've been lucky enough to assemble a small harem of comely young Mormons willing to retire with me to my outpost in the Tetons, should the avian influenza reach our shores.

I can only hope that the rest of you are as well prepared as I, but if not, please don't come round rappin' on my door. I will shoot you and eat you, tan your skin as a hide to don in the winter, and give your bones to my large and talented group of progeny as makeshift musical instruments.

I welcome the bird flu and I pity you, for you are arrogant and lazy, and your end is nigh.


I'm sure there's a hilarious racial/ethnic joke in this article somewhere, but if there is, I'll let this guy glean it, polish it, and display for the world to enjoy. You see, judging people based on the color of their skin and propogating stereotypes for an easy joke at the expense of a possible few is not my bag. I'm a uniter. And I believe that all God's creatures got a place in the choir. Sure, some sing high, some sing low, and some sing out loud on the telephone wire. And there are a few - let me tell you about these guys - they just clap their hands, or paws, or anything they got now.

But I digress. Let's talk about the issue at hand. The issue being a fleeing $46 billion, which we all know is a lot of money. And that large gob of money is doing what, exactly? It's getting itself shipped out of our country and getting itself stuffed in the pocket of a mariachi band. It's getting itself used to purchase churros, sombreros, hot sauce, and a couple rusty parts for that 1973 Ford Fairlane sitting up on blocks over there, oh man, that thing's gonna hum someday, seriously, you watch, I just need, like, three more parts and a belt. It's $46 billion that's not getting taxed, $46 billion that's not going into a health insurance policy or a retirement fund, $46 billion that's not helping pay for my aunt's social security checks, $46 billion that's not paying emergency room costs, $46 billion that's not going into a decent car insurance plan.

What I'm getting at is just plain horse sense, people. We need to stop paying these illegal immigrants the petty wage of $4/hour to watch our children and harvest our soybeans. They're clearly just throwing it away on cockfights or shipping it back home to be spent on tequila and guns. Let's reduce their wages by half and put the rest towards something meaningful, like the military, or perhaps the campaign to privatize social security.


And I fear that it may be leprous. It's prickled and pickled; covered in little, itchy pimples. But mind you. Just one thumb. And only the thumb, no more and no less. The back of the thumb, the front of the thumb, the sides of the thumb, but not the base of the thumb, not the index finger, not the palm, not the back of the hand. Just a thumb that looks like it was stuck inside a thicket of poison-ivy sphincters and doused in radiation.

I'd search WebMD but don't know where to start. Do the physicians in the house have any probable diagnoses?

Now here's a phrase I know I'm going to be uttering more than a few times in my life: Where, oh where, is House, MD?

Monday, March 21, 2005


This article is far from profound, interesting, or relevant. But it put a smile on my face by reminding me of one of my fondest college memories. The Monomoy gang and a few hangers-on (of which there were many - our house built a deserved reputation of unparalleled awesomeness during our senior year) piled into A-Palm's Jeep Cherokee and headed to Columbus to catch a Built to Spill show. Seven people in one Jeep Cherokee. At the time, and under the circumstances, I believe there was a lot of contraband herbs being ignited and inhaled, so by the time we arrived at the club, we were relatively moronic and certainly overly impaired. A-Palm couldn't parallel park his own car, so I had to do it for him, which shamed him to a small degree and filled my hazed head with a small degree of pride, and a very large degree of paranoia that the people across the street were not only watching us and laughing at us, but were calling the cops. So, off to the Newport we walked. And, like, quickly.

The show started off well. Lots of indie kids from Ohio State. Drinking a beer, hanging with homies, and being just about as cool as a kid from a hick town going to a little school in the middle of nowhere in the middle of Ohio could possibly be (which we all know, unquestionably, is pretty fucking cool). It must have been after the third or fourth song that we first heard the unmistakable word, cascading down from the balcony, greeted with the same welcome as a humid, smelly fart: "Freebird!" It was clear that the originator of the plea was drunk - already, at this early stage of the show, incredibly drunk - and that no amount of shushing from the audience or turned heads looking upwards into the darkness of the Newport, was going to dissuade the provocateur from expressing his desire to hear some Skynyrd. "Freebird!" he shouted again. Some chuckles, some more shushes. And then the band launched into another one of their songs.

When the song finished we heard the cry of Freebird once again. Same guy. Same booming, deep voice, with a hint of mischief in it, carrying through the crowd. I saw people getting visibly upset, but the bad soldiered on, valiantly, commendably. However, each time the band tuned their instruments between songs, the same lone voice could be heard, shouting Freebird, pleading for it, asking the world, in a way, "why not?". And a funny thing happened. After five or six songs, we began asking the same question. A tidal wave of emotion swept across the crowd; "What if..." it whispered in our ears. What if they played it - what if they rocked our asses with it? And then, another shift of thinking: they fucking should play it. The man on the balcony turned, suddenly, inexplicably, from asshole pariah to loveable mascot and mouthpiece. He wasn't a dickface that kept repeating the same, over-worn, humorless joke over and over again because he was a yaggoff, he just really fucking wanted to hear Freebird. And the more we all thought about it, the more we all knew that we did, too. How many times have you found yourself in a crowd, watching some eighth-rate band play, someone shouts out Freebird, and the band gets pissed off? If you're with me, it happens a lot, because I see a lot of shitty bands and I always shout Freebird. And how many times did you wish to yourself that instead of getting pissed, wouldn't it fucking tits if the band just played Freebird, and rocked your underdeveloped little balls off?

I know I have.

So anyway, the set ends. No Freebird. But maybe...maybe...they'll play it as an encore? House lights come one. We are denied even the simplest of rock pleasures - a good cover of a Bob Dylan song or some rare punk song that nobody really knows, except for one guy in the crowd, probably a plant.

And then it happens. As the crowd is shuffling out the doors, a chord. An unmistakable chord. Cause this bird you cannot cage!

They played it. The lights dimmed again. Lighters were ignited. It had to have been twenty minutes long. It seemed endless, and they played it flawlessly. I'm not sure, to this day, what the deal was - if the guy in the balcony was a plant or, and this is what I hope - the band had taken upon themselves years earlier to not only learn but perfect Freebird and, when the situation was ripe, when a man so adamantly yearned for the aural pleasure of the southern rock anthem, when a crowd so willfully backed this one man's desire, to then play the song, to "bring it", to blow our asses out, to rock our little minds.

That is what they did, and I thank them, and someday I hope they will know how deeply and how strongly they touched me, in the bathing suit area, right here on this doll, no, a little lower, right there, where the dark spot is, yes, in the bottom, they said they'd hurt my parents, they said other people did it all the time, it kind of hurt but it also kind of felt good.

Friday, March 18, 2005



I'm really glad I found the following website, if for no other reason than it led me to this image (which has been removed and replaced by this image, which is smaller and doesn't mess up my page):

Better than Kris Kross

Tuesday, March 15, 2005


Last week, I believe it was on Tuesday, I thought to myself, "Why is it that I always feel sick?"

Today, dear friends, I found out why. I'm sick.

It's not that I'm a hypochondriac (this is a point I argue with a few of my friends who accuse me as much), because part of being a hypochondriac involves feeling as though you are prone to catching communicable diseases. I, on the other hand, have an impressive immune system, due to my numerous allergies, asthma, and fierce fear of the world. It knew at an early age that it had to adapt or endlessly suffer; live free or die. As a result, I rarely if ever get flus or colds. Regardless of this, I always feel as though I am ill with something; granted, ill with something chronic and incurable. Why do I feel like this? Call it a proven track record.

So, back to the basics. I'm sick. And it's definitely something viral. Sore throat, my ears are hot, and my body is incredibly cold. Yet still, in the back of my mind, I'm holding out hope that my sore joints, my stiff neck, and my blurred vision is an early sign of leukemia, or possibly something arthritic.

A boy can hope. No?


In which I discuss a very complicated topic that I know next to nothing about, in such a way that attempts to convince you that I do. This week's topic: Astronomy - in particular the birth of the universe and the possibility of other universes and dimensions. If any of these points are wrong, please don't hesitate to shut the hell up and just let me have a minute in the sun, ok?

The term "Big Bang" is a bit misleading because there actually was no bang, such as we define the term. The universe did not explode open like a detonated stick of TNT, but rather became so compressed and dense it had no option other than to begin expanding again. Imagine all matter in the universe condensed into one central point, and it keeps condensing, keeps condensing, until there is absolutely no more space for it to get crunched into. Now imagine the amount of energy held inside one atom. It's alot. That's why nuclear bombs go boom so big. Because there's a lot of energy in a single atom. Now imagine how many atoms there are in the universe, totally, and imagine them pushed up against each so hard that one of them - and all it takes it for one to go - is about to split open. The early universe, as we now know it, began expanding quite rapidly as all of the energy in that tight bundle became so crunched it had to release itself. The universe started expanding and is still expanding today.

You may ask yourself, "If the universe was contracting before it was expanding, what does that mean? Where did all of that matter come from?" Well, where did God come from, if you believe in Him? You soon see that this question, and its answer, doesn't make any sense. All you can really say is, "It/He/She was always there." Which is really quite a foolish thing to say, because you really haven't answered any sort of question. I know this, because I am the most brilliant mind working in astrophysics today, and even I have yet to come up with an answer.

As the universe expanded, clumps of matter began forming together, as is matter's wont. Imagine you're on a basketball court and you have a bag of pennies. You throw the bag of pennies out in one direction and when they land, there will be areas where the pennies are more closely grouped together, and areas where there is more space between the pennies. Since all matter gravitates towards larger bodies of mass, clusters of pennies would, if we're now talking about space, as in outer space, the clusters would get closer together and form a galaxy. Or a solar system. I'm not really sure how that works.

Using this model, it would seem then that universes could potentially be formed in other spatial arenas where there is a grouping of matter circling around a central body of mass. What comes to mind is an atom. There is a whole body of physics devoted to this theory, and those in the know call it "string theory". Basically, this states that quarks, which are the building blocks of atoms (and I know what you're thinking - hey, I thought atoms were the building blocks of atoms!! - so don't even go there) are comprised of little strings that bounce up and down and have different vibrations. The different vibrations of the strings determine what "flavor" of quark the atom is comprised of. How this all fits in to extra dimensions and the possibility of different universes, I'm not really sure. But I do know that it raises the question that if life can arise here, on this planet, with these resources, couldn't it also, conceivably, form somewhere in the inner dimensions of an atom? And if it happened in one atom, couldn't it happen in other atoms?

Which naturally leads to an even more puzzling question, which is, "Where did all those atoms come from?" Some would say, "God". Well, where did God come from?

Take your time.

Go ahead, think about it.

Of course, that's a pretty Big Question. If you're confused and looking for the answer, I'd suggest waiting for my next Segment, in which I tackle where God came from. Until then, thanks for reading, and I hope you learned something.

To some people, this image actually makes sense.

Monday, March 14, 2005


It may come as a surpise to those who know me well that this news story is not about my life, as nearly everything stated in the article also, at one time, long ago, happened to me.

The American Mastodon, pictured above, as seen before his ascent to the top of the Kenyan rap charts, his brush with transexuality, and his reign as the world's greatest blogger.


I returned home from New Orleans yesterday around 5 in the evening. I was in bed and sleeping at roughly 7. Maybe it was earlier and maybe it was later. All I know is that sleep is something I tend not to think too intensely about until I've been denied it for three days, at which point achieving sleep is not as great a concern as how long I'm going to be able to do it, and with whom. Luckily for me, the answer was "about 12 hours" and, unluckily, "nobody".

Now, I'm sure that the seven of you who read this site (I have a site meter now, so I'm confident in saying that the number of suspected readers - four - is smaller than the actual number - eight if you count me, nine if you count both my work and home computer) are clammoring to know what I thought of New Orleans, what I learned there, how I grew - both professionaly and personally - and how many bare breasts I saw/touched/had thrust in my face for the small price of a dollar bill. To answer these queries, I will now proceed to outline a few observations which I hope will serve not only as a compendium of my experiences in the Big Easy, but as a primer to anyone daring and audacious enough to do as I did - to give 110%, 110% of the time.

First of all, let me say how wonderful an experience it is to walk up to a young, attractive, and likely inebriated woman, compliment her on her beautiful figure and chosen attire, proceed to ask her if she would be so kind as to show me and my friends her breasts, and then - miracle of miracles - to be shown said chest. For you see, in New Orleans, saying things that would get you fired from your job or possibly even arrested "you have beautiful breasts and a spectacular behind, could I please see them?", are not only tolerated, they are encouraged. The fearlessness of the atmosphere is contagious, and soon after the men feel it - thanks to a couple of Hurricanes and the purchase of a few strands of poorly made beads - the women feel it as well. It'd be hard to imagine a nursing student from Wisconsin pulling her shirt up and revealing her breasts at a karaoke bar in Sheboygan, but the pervasive feeling of permisiveness spares no one in this bayou town. Ask and ye shall receive. I, the pleasure of witnessing your beautiful cans, and you, this strand of beads that cost me 20 cents and, inexplicably, has fake oranges hanging off of it.

Second of all, Bourbon street is an alarmingly joyful and festive place, though to be sure, it is more than anything just a large and open-aired bacchanal of sin and debauchery. There is nudity, profanity, alcohol, drugs, and no shortage of homeless and hustlers. However, do not be surprised to find yourself in the awkward position of stumbling down the street at 2 in the morning with a Hurricane in one hand, a discount flyer to Scarlett's Gentleman's Club in the other hand, wondering where you are and how long it'll be until you get caught, when you notice next to you a Chinese couple ambling down the street buoyantly, escorting with them their 12-year old son. I'd be willing to chalk up the profound lapse of judgment to simple cultural differences, but I prefer instead to get indignant about it and remind you again that the Chinese are pushy, mean people, and clearly have no idea how to raise their children, which makes me appreciate all the more their government's actions to make them stop.

New Orleans is also, amazingly, a place where dreams come true. If you were to tell me on Thursday before my departure that I'd meet a young, attractive college student from Ohio, lie to her shamelessly about my age and occupation, and convince her to act irresponsibly with me, I'd be hard pressed to believe you. If you were to proceed to tell me that by so doing I would set off a chain-reaction of events that not only prevented two of my friends from having rendezvous of their own but led to behavior and actions meeting the highest of French dinner farce standards and, most unfortunately, pissing off for the remainder of the night another friend who acted, in his drunken and caustic capacity, as mediator during hightened tensions, then I'd call you a soothsayer, because I know better than anyone that my greatest talent is turning a good thing into a complicated thing.

There is more to tell but as you can see, there is clearly also something about New Orleans that makes one write incredibly long sentences. I can't say I have a theory as to why that's the case, but I would postulate that not being drunk or hungover for the first time in four days has my lifted my spirits.

Ride to live. Live to ride.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005


I've totally changed my mind!! Blogging is sweet and I've decided that maybe today I'll just, you know, totally let everything out and just be myself! I don't know why I get crazy mood swings, but I had a couple cups of coffee and I feel super fucking great! Smile, too, dammnit, or watch me come over there and smack a fucking grin on your godforsaken face, you working stiff imbecile with your fancy stapler and your funny ironic coffee mug! Let the good times roll, dickwads! Nothing really matters so long as you're having fun and look good doing it! Hand me that bottle of whiskey, Pierre - it's time to kick these boots off and let the world see the real American Mastodon.

You think I went extinct because some fucking redskins chucked a couple spears at me? Yeah, right, and I piss mercury and shit quicksilver! Well fuck me, those are the same things, aren't they?? No, the real reason I went extinct is because I love to party my ass off and that's just what I did - I partied so much my ass blew out and here I am - one anus short of a satisfying bowel movement but loving every fucking minute of it. Some people view the world as a cup that is half-empty. Some think it's half-full. Well, I say, give me that fucking cup, cause I'm wasted and I gotta piss, like, right now, yeeeeaaaahhh!!!!!

I'm sorry if I got a little sad and sappy in that last post. Sometimes I get down, but you know - life is, like, peaks and valleys, man. What goes up must come down, and sometimes, I'm so fucking high up there, loving life so goddamned much, just eating up this whole great big angel food cake that is our existence, that it's only natural I come down a little bit - reacclimate, if you will. And if during those times when the world's not the rainbow it has the potential to be, and it's my whim to poke myself with sharp objects, turn my phone off, and sleep for twenty hours straight, then that's the price I pay for eating the joy that is life from both ends with a grin on my face and a raging huge boner in my pants!!

Come on everyone, shape up and dance!! This is what it means to be alive.

I'm going to New Orleans this weekend and hope to see a lot of these.


To all of the faithful readers of the American Mastodon, I apologize for the recent lag in both the quality and quantity of my posts. I have only myself and my increasing despair of the relevance and purpose of my life to blame; while the rest of you may enjoy reading about how "fuggly" a certain celebrity is, or whose "tees" deserve the daily "bovs"ing upon, I can't help but think that the world is a petty, evil place, full of petty, evil people. This thought crushes my soul and my will to live. My body, nothing but a shell of skin and tendons containing the dust that was formerly my ambitions and hopes, creaks and rasps like an old rickshaw. Though I've stopped drinking alcohol, I wake up each morning with a hangover. The only solace I find during the day is the thought that everyone around me will someday die. At night, when I should be sleeping, I lie awake and debate whether I should get up and use the restroom. When I do use the restroom, I wonder why nothing will come out.

During my lunch hour, I weep until my body is expunged of moisture.

So, in other words, I'm sorry if I haven't written much of worth lately.

Does this not inspire pity?

Tuesday, March 08, 2005


Or anything, but collecting coins and stamps seems like a really retarded thing to do, until you read articles like this.

But, you know, I still think it's pretty queer.

Friday, March 04, 2005


This would be really great news if the kids whose parents were independently wealthy blue-bloods who don't even need jobs in the first place - not to mention those that retired early to cash-out their stock options and who are planning on finding some other CEO position four years later when their daughter graduates from Harvard - didn't benefit as much or more than the poor kid from North Carolina whose single mother is a fry cook at Friendly's.

But for all those kids who just got accepted to Yale and whose parents really do make less than $40,000 a year, I say congratulations. By way of preparation, let me make a few cautionary suggestions:

1.) Since you're poor already, you might get offended by the incredibly rich kids at your school who act poor as a way of rebelling against their parents. Don't worry - not only are they terribly uninteresting people, but since they don't really have any sincere interest in being poor, you won't have to interact with them.

2.) Since you're not getting a stipend on top of the free tuition, it will be hard finding any federal loans to go skiing with your roommate up in Vermont on the weekends. You might also find it difficult to get grant money to study abroad in France with your boyfriend. Don't worry, though - waitressing is its own cultural experience, and your classmates will think you're superhuman if you work on things other than papers.

3.) Summers might be difficult, but keep your chin up and remember that fall is around the corner. Just because you now resent the feeble-minded peasants in the small town you grew up in in North Carolina, don't think the feeling's not reciprocal. All those kids you went to school with - and more than likely your parents - despise you for all that book learning you been doing and those fancy new shirts you're wearing. Have fun at your job at the local attorneys office, but remember that just because he wrote you a recommendation letter last year doesn't mean he's not incredibly jealous and spiteful this year. To pass the time as you staple and file, just think about all the internships and trips to Italy your classmates are currently on.

4.) Finally, and perhaps most importantly, remember that the reasons why your mother had to raise you herself - lots of unprotected sex with multiple partners coupled with copious amounts of drug use - are precisely the things students in college are looking to do. Though you've had 18 years worth of solid moral teachings from a woman who's seen the incredible harm that poor decisions can wreak on a young life, there's no reason why you can't live a little.

Besides, everyone else is doing it, and it's not like you're paying for it.

Thursday, March 03, 2005


If you were to meet these two famous people in real life, whose ridiculous made-up name would you have a more difficult time saying with a straight face?

a) The Rock
b) The Edge


Hey dude, check these antlers out. They're pretty sweet.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005


I hope this is a joke, but I haven't read the editorial so I'm not sure. I do know that it's not surprising that the LA Times would voice this plea - in LA, just the fact that Bono takes the time to mention things like "Africa" and "hunger", makes him a pretty "deep" person who's, like, "in to politics and stuff." But come on. Knowing that Bono wants to eradicate poverty and write off the debt of third world countries, asking him to take over the World Bank is a little like asking the president of Greenpeace to run Exxon.


I fear that I will not ascend to blog greatness if I continue to fail to post something interesting every day. So, with that in mind, I present to you a funny picture of a squirrel smoking pot.


Now, something relevant:

As far as I can tell, this Michael Jackson case doesn't seem to be getting any traction in the press.