Tuesday, February 28, 2006


If this

now has this,

then why is it still called bird flu?

If, heaven forbid, this

catches this,

then I suggest we change the name to something a little less species-specific. Something catchy like "Holy Shit Flu."

Finally, it would have been truly tragic, and quite ironic, had she

died from this,

which, for those of you following along, is now found in both these

and these.


Satirists the world over are dealt yet another blow at the hands of earnestness and idiocy.


Then, you feel bad for laughing.

Then, you laugh again.


Because Valentine's Day was so fun.

Monday, February 27, 2006


You've got a lot of growing up to do. And, for what it's worth, I agree with your father, who, in his wisdom, claimed that there will be "a dark and difficult future, if there is a future at all." He also correctly proclaimed that, "there will be a pandemic that kills millions; a devastating energy crisis; a horrible, worldwide depression; and a nuclear explosion set off in anger." Unfortunately for you, you are too young and full of your own esteem to believe him. The words of the prophets, though often written on the subway walls, and tenement halls, are rarely heeded in their own age.

Thankfully for me, I realize the prescience in his concerns; after the bomb(s?) go off, China has successfully claimed the oil fields of Russia and Pakistan, gas climbs above $6/gallon, houses in the suburbs sit abandoned, unemployment rises past 30%, and wolves prowl city streets, you'll be sitting dumbfounded with your thumb in your mouth, staring at the static on the television screen, hoping and silently waiting for some great miracle to arrive - through your pollyanic vision of a country bound together, we patriots rise above our differences and help each other through a series of great crises for which we are grossly ill-equipped. Through my more realistically-based perception of the world as it is today and soon will be, I loot your goddamn house, stab your elderly but wise father and steal the precious jewels he desperately clutches, siphon the gas from your family's SUVs, and steal your sister to be the mother of my clan as we start a new life in the hills of Idaho.

The imbecilic hopefulness of the Josh Rittenbergs of the world, though charming, is not a trait that will likely survive the coming global population contraction. This I believe.

Saturday, February 25, 2006


Whoever told you that your strength was "bumbling" gave you great career advice.

Friday, February 24, 2006


I hate those damn give-the-retard-the-football-on-the-last-play-of-the-season type television segments, because they always make me cry. Always. You could shoot my dog and choke my horse and I wouldn't dampen a hankie, but show me a retard in a baseball helmet striking out during the state finals and I fucking lose it.

Because of all that, this was remarkably dangerous to watch at work.

Thursday, February 23, 2006




My brother likes to say, "you should just get a girlfriend, I think it would make you happier," as though the option is just sitting there ripe for the taking - as though I've been actively turning down the opportunity to date a bevy of sexy, sweet, and simple women. Now, it would be easy, at this point, for me to start writing about all of the reasons why the presence of a girlfriend hasn't been a part of my life since college. But again, like blogging about my job, discussing the reasons behind my proper assimilation and acceptance of modern dating procedures on my blog is just not within my realm of ability or comfort at this point, nor do I hope it ever is. No, this little post is about something slightly different. It's about why, when you reach a certain age, when it comes to women, you stop competing with only your peers and start competing with them and with all those who came before you.

My roommate and I live in a small apartment complex comprised of four two-bedroom apartments. Recently, probably a week ago, we got new neighbors - two girls from Chicago, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to be in the warm and sunny climes of America's hitmaker of a city, Los Angeles. Pulling up in their Penske truck late on a Wednesday night, the roomie and I decided to help our fellow neighbors, as is our Godly duty, and broke quite the sweat schlepping their seemingly endless parade of stuff up the stairs and into the new apartment. What can I say? We're stand-up guys. It should be noted, for purely scientific and empirical reasons, that the girls are not significantly cute, though one is a bit cuter than the other. They are of that healthy breed of gals that come from the chilly climate of the hog-butcher to the world - Chicago requires a thicker winter coat than southern California is all I'm saying, and I'd appreciate it if you'd not judge me harshly for my clinical observations. I can enjoy the friendship of women without having to think of them as sexual objects, you damn prevert.

During the past week, they've come down the stairs for a beer or two, and I've made my way up the steps to share some music and chat about their respective job searches. It's almost painful to talk to them at times - the same spot in my heart hurts every time I speak to anyone new to LA, full of faux-hope and not completely buying their own bullshit, as if the louder they proclaim their unwavering desire and determination to "make it", the greater their chances. It is the fumes from these gaseous delusions that run this city, the hundreds of thousands of technicians and interns and PAs that don't mind being abused and degraded and underpaid, so long as they someday have their shot (their shot at what, exactly, is universally vague, but the chance to rub shoulders with someone like Kanye West would surely suffice) - and sadly, how few of them are able to see the little compromises they make along the way, the slow slide into cynicism and the casual drift of personal tastes, until ten years go by and they've become the person they first worked for and whom they always said they'd never become, still renting a one-bedroom apartment in Hollywood and holding out hope that someday their script will be read by a famous actor too overcome with emotion not to produce and star in the film themselves, a stroke of luck that will buy them a little respect and a one-way ticket on the fast train to celebrity luches at Spago and a house in Malibu. Onward fame-obsessed soldiers!

Last night, I returned a few CDs to the ladies from the Windy City, lingering in their apartment as they recounted their day for me - an eventful but slow drive up the coast to Malibu, full of stops on the side of the road and snapshots taken. Oh, the innocence of youth. We talked about how much I hated my job, and how much they were looking forward to their new, still imaginary jobs, and the conversation drifted into one of the girl's bedrooms, where she was working on her computer. The three of us joked a bit more and, after being prompted, I again did my impression of Gob from Arrested Development, one of the easier guaranteed laughs in my repetoire, a high face card always held for an easy hand. After the girly giggles subsided, the girl at the computer whispered, almost inaudibly, "You remind me so much of J." I asked who J. was. She pointed to the large, framed picture of a young man playing a heavily stickered guitar on the dresser and said, "Just . . . a guy." As is my nature, I mocked her. "Oooh, just some guy, huh?"

"Actually," she said, "he's passed away."

What do you say then? I apologized and asked what happened, but she said that she'd rather not talk about it. Of course she wouldn't want to talk about it! I mean, all she did was bring it up herself! Who in their right mind would take that as an invitation to discuss the circumstances of the young man's death? A presumptuous asshole was the implication and, being a presumptuous asshole, I pressed further. "Oh, well, I'm really sorry. You don't have to talk about it . . . I mean, if it's really personal or something . . ."

She claimed that it was really difficult to talk about it because J. was "her guy" and that maybe her roommate should explain what happened. After a confused look and some hemming and hawing, the roommate proceeded to vaguely describe how "some sort of freak accident" took J.'s life, that somehow he was electrocuted on the El. It was hard to understand everything the roommate was saying, though, because of her unfortunate mumbling and the faint high hum of a chorus of violins playing the theme from the Twilight Zone somewhere on Santa Monica Boulevard. I quietly excused myself and retired to my apartment, where the lock was quickly but quietly engaged, the blinds closed, the lights dimmed, and the television turned down.

You see, this is what you get for reaching out into the world. You try to help someone. You try to make a connection with people, to develop an understanding, to find common ground. And at the end of the day, all you get in return is the creepy feeling that the world is full of unstable women waiting to compare you to their dead boyfriends.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006


I should have saved my outlandish vitriol for the truly disturbing and soul-crushing, instead of wiling it away this morning on some lady who doesn't really know any better. I should have saved it for this.

My anger is like a grain of sand, hurled through space, quickly freezing, growing in size, full of ice and stone and dark nooks and growing, growing, growing, colliding and combining with other comets, pulled toward an unyielding source, compacting as it races towards a black hole, then quickly imploding in a soundless vaccuum; the inhuman spectacle that is the physical realm flows forever on.


I've lately experienced some changes here at my job that have left me sad and angry and frustrated. I won't get into them because, ultimately, none of it is important in any significant way, and I choose to only ever write about things which provoke in me a great and unwavering passion. Also, even though I have a job I don't like and I have a blog, two key ingredients to great blog-cess, I feel like writing about my job on my blog would force me to confront things about myself that I'm unwilling to do at this time. Regardless, as infuriating as this job and this work environment is, I have to admit that reading this article provoked the most antipathetic reaction to a personal point of view since those Danish guys offended my Lord, Allah.

Is it just me or is the world growing Jessica Francis Kanes like a bad case of athlete's foot? Stupid, rich, undeserving, lazy, arrogant and selfish. Ain't that America.

Thursday, February 16, 2006


Editor, Times-Union:

OK, OK, So the vice president of the United States shot someone in the face with a shotgun. What I would like to know is, did he get the quail?

Harold Kitson
Mastodon City


Catch em by the tail.

James Cruise talks about his fabricated gay memoir on Oprah.

Werner Herzog does not like chaos.

The dodo bird sho' is funny lookin'!

Wednesday, February 15, 2006


TEHRAN (Reuters) - Not content with pelting European embassies with petrol bombs to protest against cartoons of the Prophet Mohammad, Iranians have decided to rename the "Danish pastries" relished by this nation of cake lovers.

From now on, the sweet, flaky pastries which dominate the shelves in Iran's cake shops will be known as "Roses of the Prophet Mohammad," the official IRNA news agency reported as pressure on Denmark over the cartoons took on a new dimension.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006



I could cut and paste a hundred lines from this story, but that wouldn't be very efficient for you or me. Just print it out and read it if you've got the time. Never have I felt more pegged, or exposed, after reading a story than this one.

Monday, February 13, 2006


Goes to...

Cheney Apparently Breaks Key Hunting Rule by the Associated Press

I don't want to give anything away here for those of you not yet aware of the story, but the "Key Hunting Rule" they're speaking of rhymes with "Pdon't Pshoot Psomeone Pelse in the Pface."


AM: when was the last time you watched rambo?
Farmhand: little rocks of ice are falling from the sky
i guess they call it hail
rambo would cry if he lived in seattle
AM: rambo would wage war on the weather
he wouldn't be a pussy about it
Farmhand: rambo would stab the weather to death
and in the battle he would receive a laceration from a bolt of lightening
and he would sew it up with a thread of bark he made soft by chewing on it
AM: and he'd be all like "you made me fight you, weather! i never did nuthin to you! i just wanted to enjoy the sunshine. it's in my nature!"
which is ironic, right?
like, two forces of nature
Farmhand: and his body would reject the bark because all of nature is against rambo
rambo is at war against the gods
he is the atlas of the modern age
he must hold the world upon his shoulders in punishment
AM: rambo vs. nature. who would win?
it would be ugly, that's for sure
Farmhand: rambo would lose, but he would become a legend in the process. and he would plot his revenge.
rambo would shoot dynamite arrows into the heart of mt. st. helens and blow up nature from the inside.
AM: it's like the dragon's neck
there's only one place he can pierce
Farmhand: but nature would make an earthquake and he would fall down inside the earth
AM: he sets off a chain reaction and all of the earth's plates completely shift
no, see, rambo thought ahead
he shot it from a hot air baloon
Farmhand: well, that's an idea.
he could make the ballon from animal hides
that he killed with his bare hands
AM: and blow it up in the air with his own breath
Farmhand: right.
but nature would probably send an army of eagles to rip it up
AM: well, come on
eagles? need i remind you we're talking about RAMBO
he would just slice em up
it would be like practice for him
Farmhand: rambo is tricky.
he would probably tie a dead rabbit onto the tip of dynamite arrow, then launch it high above the balloon.
the eagles would flock to the sweet meat, and then all explode.
and then they would all fall into the basket and he would eat them all to get their bravery
AM: you know, the more you think about, the more you realize that rambo IS nature
i mean, where does one start and another stop?
Farmhand: that's the tragedy. once rambo and nature lived in harmony.
then rambo went to war to defend the human race
and nature betrayed him
now rambo is all alone, battling for survival and for his honor.
AM: but wasn't it nature who exiled humans in the first place?
or were the humans the ones who betrayed first?
the rambo story alludes to this chicken/egg dilemma that faces all of us
Farmhand: well if those questions were answered once and for all, we wouldn't need rambo out there battling nature
let's just say, if rambo would ever win, things would be very different around here.
nature wouldn't boss around humans anymore, for starters.
AM: rambo represents the grotesque beauty of our souls. of our potential, and of our vulnerability. rambo also represents how awesome it is to shoot a machine gun.
Farmhand: rambo doesn't believe in pain.
rambo doesn't believe in eating vegetables, either.
except rice is okay.
but wild pigs are probably the best food for nourishment when you are battling nature or large armies of humans.
AM: rambo eats what he can find. that includes fear.
Farmhand: yes, it's true. rambo will eat fear if there aren't any wild boars around to stab to death. he will also savor the sweet scent of burnt forests.
this is good stuff, i'm cuttting and pasting this into my novel.
AM: shouldn't this actually just be the novel?
Farmhand: like the best parts of all novels, it will be the vision the protoganist will have on his deathbed.


I didn't come to rescue Rambo from you. I came here to rescue you from him.

You don't seem to want to accept the fact you're dealing with an expert in guerrilla warfare, with a man who's the best, with guns, with knives, with his bare hands. A man who's been trained to ignore pain, ignore weather, to live off the land, to eat things that would make a billy goat puke. In Vietnam his job was to dispose of enemy personnel. To kill! Period! Win by atrition. Well Rambo was the best.

I could have killed 'em all, I could kill you. In town you're the law, out here it's me. Don't push it. Don't push it or I'll give you a war you won't believe. Let it go. Let it go.

Vagrancy wasn't it? That's gonna look real good on his grave stone in Arlington: Here lies John Rambo, winner of the Congressional Medal of Honor, survivor of countless incursions behind enemy lines. Killed for vagrancy in Jerkwater, USA.

But I'm your friend Johnny! I was there with you knee-deep in all that blood and guts. I covered your ass more than once. Seems like baling you out of trouble's got to be a life-time achievement for me.

That boy's a heart attack! He may be the best the Special Forces ever produced. Whatever you're planning to throw at him here, he's been through a whole lot worse, in lot worse places than this. I'm just amazed he allowed any of your posse to live.

God didn't make Rambo. I made him!

Nothing is over! Nothing! You just don't turn it off! It wasn't my war! You asked me, I didn't ask you! And I did what I had to do to win! But somebody wouldn't let us win! And I come back to the world and I see all those maggots at the airport, protesting me, spitting. Calling me baby killer and all kinds of vile crap! Who are they to protest me? Who are they? Unless they've been me and been there and know what the hell they're yelling about!

We were in this bar in Saigon and this kid comes up, this kid carrying a shoe-shine box. And he says "Shine, please, shine!" I said no. He kept askin', yeah, and Joey said "Yeah." And I went to get a couple of beers, and the box was wired, and he opened up the box, fucking blew his body all over the place. And he's laying there, he's fucking screaming. There's pieces of him all over me, just... (Takes off his bandolier) like this, and I'm tryin' to pull him off, you know, my friend that's all over me! I've got blood and everything and I'm tryin' to hold him together! I'm puttin'... the guy's fuckin' insides keep coming out! And nobody would help! Nobody would help! He's saying, sayin' "I wanna go home! I wanna go home!" He keeps calling my name! "I wanna go home, Johnny! I wanna drive my Chevy!" I said "Why? I can't find your fuckin' legs! I can't find your legs!"

Hunting? We ain't huntin' him, he's huntin' us!

Friday, February 10, 2006


King Crab.

Shake that ass
Shake that pussy
Looking so good
I like your boobs

Thursday, February 09, 2006


And it makes so much sense, it's scary.

Some day, Jack White is going to grow up and be Prince. Say what you will; cast stones all you like - this is a true statement and one I stand behind unequivocally.

If you have the balls, watch this.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006


In what has become a common occurrence among the many idiots of the blogosphere, this morning we will undoubtedly find at our monitors the fruits of labors so greatly unimportant that not even Muslims will find reason to riot. I'm talking, of course, of live-blogging. Because who, in this slow and simple world we live in, has the extravagant luxury of owning a television, a radio, or a subscription to a newspaper? The answer, unfortunately, is none of us. That's why we come crawling to the Interweb every morning, seeking information and, if the time allows, a bit of entertainment to brighten our day. And this morning, with a collective gasp, we stand before our monitors with mouth agape in the realization that - omigod - the GRAMMYS were on last night!

You are all pathetic wastes of skin. If you are searching for salvation in $500 handbags and another pair of shoes, I hope you find it. Redemption and peace, our ancestors wisely told us, can be discovered within the pages of US Weekly magazine. Sure, half the world may be burning and the other half may be sliding ever quicker into fascism, but thinking about all that just makes you so depressed, and who needs more doom and gloom in their life? Clutch tighter to your breasts your iPods and your designer sunglasses and forget the fact that you hate who you are. Slip slide away into the trivialities of celebrity and song; construct for yourself a cooperative world that plays by your rules - then, when you're bored by it, dismantle it with snark and cynicism. Speak only of the frivolity of the world, without cessation, and then speak of how much the people in that world irk you. And, of course, no matter what you do, don't admit to yourself that you just may have an extra minute somewhere in your day to slow down, take a breath, and contemplate the spoiled, senseless existence you slumber through - because, hey, that text message to your fuck-buddy isn't going to clumsily type itself! You don't deserve the wealth that the blood and toil and pain of generations of forebears and slaves has wrought you. You are not aware of, let alone ashamed of the perverted fact that what you make in a week, sitting at a desk answering phones and typing on a keyboard and listening to music and god knows what else that doesn't involve breaking a sweat, is more than what a 60 year old man in Guyana who works 70 hour weeks schlepping dirt out of a polluted gold mine makes in a year.

And what really hurts - what really twists the knife in your chest - is the fact that he is happier than you are, because he doesn't have an STD and because he doesn't secretly hope to be an editor for some shitty magazine; whatever salvation you hope your little fantansies of fame or wealth will bring you pales in comparison to the sacrifices you will inevitably make in giving up that which formerly passed as your personality. The man in the gold mine says, "This is the day that the Lord hath made, let us rejoice and be glad in it." You say, "Jesus Christ, how long does it take to make an iced mocha? God!"

Of course it's entirely possible that you are now thinking to yourself, "Well, what makes you any better?" Nothing does. That's the whole point right there. I'm in the same boat and I'm not going to make excuses for myself. I'm just going to tell it like it is, speak truth to power, let the chips fall where they may, and other platitudes. There are, however, two things that differentiate me from you - one, I understand what a petty and awful little wretch I am, and two, I don't live-blog shit like the Grammys.

I live-blog shit like Jeopardy.


7:02 PM
We are introduced to the contestants. This week is Teen Jeopardy, which is great because on a given night, I can get probably 80-90% of questions correct. Alex comes out and introduces the contestants, who all appear extremely young. On the far right, we have a mulatto girl named Iddoshe from Louisville, cute enough but boy howdy Jesus, those are some ridiculous braces. Next we have a nice, gay little Catholic boy named Joseph from New Jersey. Finally, in the pole position, a horsey looking farmgirl Camille from Oklahoma, I presume, wearing some pinkish sweater. Didn't hear where she's from.

We get started, and the kids jump into the World Geography category. These are quite possibly the easiest questions I've ever seen on a Jeopardy show. First there is a map of the North Atlantic, with two countries highlighted. Could they be...Greenland and Iceland? By jove they are! The next answer is, "This country was divided into two halves before the US entered in so and so date in the late sixties." Couldn't be Vietnam, could it? Next is another map question with India highlighted. Another toughie. The last question is the only tough one - Hobart is the capital of what Australian island-state. Gee, how many Australian island-states are there?

Now the kids decide to move on to the category of "All in the celebrity family." I'm getting really tired of this live-blogging thing. A couple of answers in this category are the Afflecks and the Olsons.

Some math questions. Joseph is just sitting at his podium looking stupid. He's not answering anything.

Back from commercial break, the kids tell their "getting to know you" stories. Iddoshe is a bitch. Alex asks her, "So it says here that you went on an African safari. Where exactly did you go?" Her response is, "uh...Africa?" in that "Jesus you are a dumbass," valley-girl kind of way. Then she laughs at her own joke. One word: uppity.

Joseph seems like a nice young man, but he's a fucking tool. I'm doubting the mom-picked-out-this-sweater at Penny's look is reeling in the ladies. I could be wrong, though. Douche.

Camille quickly reveals herself to be the most loathsome. Alex asks her about her extra-curricular activities, to which she replies that she reads for the blind - over the radio. Alex says - and this is why The Trebek is The King - "aren't all radio stations for the blind?" SNAP. Camille I hope you go blind and have to listen to do-gooder 17 year olds read you the newspaper over the radio. I'm also really hoping that the station you work at is not publicly supported. My tax dollars should be used to make nuclear bombs, not make blind people happy.

Back to the trivia. Another celebrity family question - the Culkins is the answer. Obviously that was going to come up at some point.

Camille is kicking serious ass. I haven't even really been keeping track.

Joseph finally answers something correctly. I didn't hear the question(answer), but the answer(question) is "What is a Dandelion?" I bet mom is so proud! Queer.

Ooh, Camille gets the first Daily Double in Word Origins and wagers $1800 (note: not a true daily double). The answer is "coroner" and she got it right.

Joseph looks like he's going to cry.

Another question, this time in the Stock Symbols category - clue is that the symbol is SIRI and they use satellites to bring you your tunes! And this is the hardest question in the category. Man, I love Teen Jeopardy. How easy was that?

This live-blogging thing is hard and boring. There are too many questions in Jeopardy. From now I'm just going to mention weird things I notice.

The answer(question) was "What is the special olympics," and Joseph answered (incorrectly, of course), "What is Buddy Ball?" That is gold.

The tides have turned. The young mulatto is running away with it.

Not too fast - Camille is trying to make those blind radio listening people proud. Do you think they're watching, or listening on their radio?

Joseph is kicking ass in the Revolutionary War category. Shocker! I'm guessing that homeschooling provides a lot of time for the study of the Revolutionary War.

Camille gets another Daily Double, wagers $3600 (note: not true daily double) and gets it right.

Joseph gets a Daily Double in the revolutionary war category, wagers $4000 (note: not a true daily double) and gets it right. Good on ya, Joe. Mom is surely beaming.

Commercial break. I'm worn out. Final jeopardy category is "MILESTONES".

Made myself another whiskey and squirt. Mmm...whiskey and Jeopardy. I could live in a fucking gulag for the rest of my life so long as I was plied with whiskey and could watch Jeopardy twice a day. Ha! Obviously i'm joking. I'd only need Jeopardy once a day.

Oprah promo - tomorrow's show is all about OJ! I kind of want to watch it.

Here's the question(answer): "In 1994, 25 years after this event, one participant said, 'For one crowing moment, we were creatures of the cosmic ocean.'"

This is quite possibly the easiest Final Jeopardy clue of all time. Obviously the event was the opening of the first GAP store.

The real question is whether or not any of these kids will get it wrong.

Joseph got it right, though he said "Apollo 11," which in my opinion means he should get bonus points.

Camille got it right.

Iddoshe got it right and won the game with $26,600, which is a lot. Unfortunately, because she's a minority, she'll probably get a scholarship for college anyway. You know where i'm going with this - ESCALADE TIME!


Ok, this concludes my first foray into live-blogging. This moment is hands-down the lowest point of my life.


Walton Ford. Be sure to read the caption of the picture in the article.

Check out some of his paintings here.

La forga de un rebelde

Reminds me of the work of John Steuart Curry, specifically Hogs Killing a Rattlesnake.

Also reminds me quite a bit of Steven Kenny.

The Cooper's Wife


I hate to be such a syncophantic New Yorker cheerleader, but really. They just have fantastic articles. Here's one about the Shakers. I had no idea that the woman who founded the Shakers was also considered the second coming of Christ. Funny.

Here's a picture of a Shaker desk-thingy:


and Mormons and crazy fundamentalist Christians and right-wing militias and Katie Couric and Baathists and all you commies and the ACLU and Jimmy Carter:

You will never destroy the essence of America, because America is filled with people like this.

2284 [17] Ensign Oak in field mission.

During a special scientific research where part of the crew were assigned to aid the Cantaris One new scientific team.

Marshall Oak was among the crew assigned to follow the Special Aid Team to help operational scientific crew of the lab. They were on the need to catalog the indigenous life forms of the habitable Cantaris system planets and the training crew of the Enterprise was eager to a chance to go into field.

The mission went through some weeks and after that the Special Team would be sent back to the Academy for some R&R and new studies.


If there's one thing I've learned in life, it's this.

Tuesday, February 07, 2006


I don't even know if Manohla is a man or a woman. Or Indian or Spanish. Or twenty or sixty. Or tall or short. Or black or white. Or hot or not.


Q. I know you loved “The New World” and so did I. I've seen it twice in the past two weeks, with the second viewing even better than the first. I think it's an unqualified masterpiece. Why do you think it's being left out of the field of Oscar nominations? — Kay Flaminio Durham, N.C.

A. The film’s brilliant cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki was nominated, so it wasn’t completely ignored. Mr. Lubezki was previously nominated for “The Little Princess” (he lost to John Toll for, bleech, “Braveheart”) and “Sleepy Hollow” (that time he lost to Conrad L. Hall for "American Beauty"). Here’s hoping that this time around talent outweighs popularity. In any event, there is only one possible explanation for why Terrence Malick’s glorious film, one of the most aesthetically and intellectually ambitious, emotionally devastating and politically resonant works of American art in recent memory, was overlooked by the Academy: with the exception of my few dear friends in that august body, they are idiots.


This may come as a shock to as many as one of you, but the 260th best college basketball team in the country, Alabama A&M, also has the toughest schedule. Now that's a tough break.

Also, Connecticut and Pittsburgh, ranked number 1 and 9 in the country, respectively, and members of what is inarguably the best conference in the country, have strength of schedule ratings of 192 and 210.

Do I smell shenanigans? Governor, I believe I do.

Also, while we're on the topic of college basketball, let me just say that I like the idea of Adam Morrison, but, after watching the man play, I must admit I don't actually like Adam Morrison.

Beware, all you NBA scouts who are reading this blog - DO NOT GIVE AWAY YOUR NUMBER ONE PICK FOR THE NEXT TOM GUGLIOTTA. Thank you.

Adam Morrison, above, attempts a behind-the-head pass to the cute little asian girl in the front row. WOOK OUT, WADY!

Monday, February 06, 2006


"As time passed, five whole bodies of the Magdalene, together with spare parts, were discovered in various locales."

Fantastic article about Mary Magdalene.


Since no one really knows what the Prophet Muhammad looked like, any modern attempts to represent him are either incorrect or hypothetical. So, in an expression of my rights as an American, and as a member of a modern and secular society, I have chosen to publish what I believe is an image of Muhammad. However, because I don't want to offend anyone, I have actually posted four pictures, only ONE of which is an accurate depiction of Muhammad. If you are a Muslim and you wish not to be offended, please imagine that none of the pictures below are actual representations of what Muhammad may have looked like. To the rest of you, I repeat the words of The Prophet, who in his wisdom promoted peace, justice, and happiness: "We don't make mistakes here, we just have happy accidents. We want happy, happy things. If you want sad things, watch the news. Everything is possible here. This is your little universe."

Friday, February 03, 2006


You'd think that the Packers - surely a company with annual revenues in the millions - could at the least hire a recent college grad to proofread the new coach's Mission Statement.

I'm sorry, I meant MISSION STATEMENT.


I love sports. But I hate sports people.

Sadly, there once was a time when a couple of the smartest people in America used to write eloquently about sports.

Sorry, Bill Simmons - you don't quite cut the mustard.

Thursday, February 02, 2006


Is not really as bad as you might imagine.


February 2, 1996

Floyd Voight, proprietor of Voight's Automotive Service and Repair, purchased a winning lottery ticket at Big Jack's Shell Station. After cashing in his $20,000 prize, Floyd was arrested on charges of child support deliquency.

February 2, 1981

The annual "Kiss A Pig" contest at Lincoln Elementary school, where students vote for the teacher they most want to kiss a pig by putting pennies in a can, proved not to be a success. Money was raised for the purpose of going on a ski trip, but the grand total amounted to no more than $96. Sixth-grade students won the contest and chose Bill Studebaker to kiss the pig, which was furnished by Rudy Glingle. The money was given to the local Salvation Army.

February 2, 1956

Pfc. Robert L. Graham, son of Charles N. Graham, North Mastodon City, recently participated in "Polo Ball," a Seventh Army command post exercise in Germany. The exercise tested communications, clothing, equipment and supply operations in snow, rain, mud, cold and wind. It was agreed that most of the supplies tested proved to be in quite poor condition.

February 2, 1931

Peggy Dickinson was finally caught with her hand in the cookie jar. The eight year old daughter of Reverend Jim Dickinson, First Methodist Church, was caught pilfering a snickerdoodle from Johnson's Bakery on Market Street, the site of many recent missing desserts. Her father, who was alerted to the crime by the bakery's proprietor, whipped his daughter in broad daylight with his leather belt and was promptly placed in jail for three weeks.

February 2, 1906

Bill Jenkins, a traveling miracle-cure salesman from St. Louis by the Mississippi River, peddled his wares in the newly-built Central Lake Park Pavilion. Many bottles of his special elixir were purchased and most of the customers left satisfied. Maybelle Taylor claimed the potion cured her sore back and even Janco Roberts, who first spoke up against Mr. Jenkins by calling him a charlatan, admitted that the magic medicine cleared up a pressing headache.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006


There are three reasons why you should read this short story:

1) It's perfect.
2) It's by Tobias Wolff.
3) It's short.

The whole country was being hollowed out like this, devoured from the inside, and nobody was fighting back. It was embarrassing, vaguely shameful, to watch people get pushed around without a fight. That’s why he’d taken on his little pop-eyed pug of a client with her fucked-up hand—she was a battler. Stonewalled every step of the way, bombarded with demands for documents, secretly videotaped, insulted with dinky settlement offers, even threatened with a countersuit, she just lowered her head and kept coming. She’d spent all her savings going after the surgeon who’d messed her up, to the point where she’d had to move to San Francisco to live with her son, a paralegal in Burke’s firm. Her lawyer back here in New Delft had suffered a stroke and bowed out. The case was a long shot but Burke had taken it on contingency, because he saw that she wouldn’t back off, she’d keep pushing to the end.


Recent news coming out of Washington indicates that "[CIA Special Prosecutor Patrick] Fitzgerald admits that he has been told some emails from the President and Vice President's offices have been deleted, though he cautions that 'no pertinent evidence has been destroyed.'"

I, my friends, have acquired those emails, and have reprinted them below. EXCLUSIVE!

From: Scooter Libby
To: Dick Cheney

sup bro. thinking about checking out 'two for the money' tonight. mccaunaghey(sp?) is smokin hot. whatya think?

From: Dick Cheney
To: Scooter Libby

furreals. i was thinking about maybe takin lynne with me. she loves sports movies (weird, right?) plus, pacino, need i say more? nuff said. also, you have any idea what happened to all the mr. pibb? fridge seems to be empty...

From: Scooter Libby
To: Dick Cheney

sorry duder. i was here late last night working on my novel and polished off the batch. maybe we could get an intern to restock. you seen the new honey from g'town? that broad is suh-mokan, am i right.

From: Dick Cheney
To: Scooter Libby

chick definitely be bangin. i know her dad from way back in wyoming, so it's like kind of off-limits for me but you should def try to tap that. so yur workin on another novel, huh? good luck with that [eye roll] just dont quit yur dayjob!

From: Dick Cheney
To: Scooter Libby

just bustin yur balls, broham. you know i think yur an awesome writer. hey, maybe you and lynne should work on something together sometime. just dont be hittin that shit when i'm not around, dude, know what i'm saying? fuck, did that chick get the pibb yet?

From: Scooter Libby
To: Dick Cheney

ha ha very funny. i'd like to see you try to write a book, dick(head!). it's not that easy. anyway, i wouldn't want to get with lynne, so you don't have to worry about that. she likes sports movies, huh? yeah, that's pretty weird. does she like softball and wife beater shirts, too? does she watch a lot of ellen? LOL, dude, i'm just razzin ya.

From: Dick Cheney
To: Scooter Libby

just because mary's munching on mittens don't mean momma's a muff diver, too. you need to grow up.

From: Scooter Libby
To: Dick Cheney

hey, big chief, it was a joke. anyway, brittany (the intern) just got back with the pibb. but guess what? it was all DIET. what an idiot. i just might have to 'reprimand' her if you know what i'm saying.

From: Dick Cheney
To: Scooter Libby

diet pibb? who drinks that kind of shit. i'd rather piss in a cup and drink it. i did that once, actually. you know what it tastes like? shit. hey, where you gonna see 'two for the money'? amc in georgetown?

From: Scooter Libby
To: Dick Cheney

yeah, probs. wanna catch a bite beforehand? i know a good french place down by the water. it's pretty sweet. the waitresses there are ridonculously hot. ridonculous. anyway, let me know. whatever's clever with me, homeslice.

From: Dick Cheney
To: Scooter Libby

sweet. never been before. i'll have to get lynne first - she's at the gym right now doing yoga or some shit. before you know it she'll be reading my horoscope and, like, you know, reading my palm or something, right! maybe when this vp shit is all over she'll wanna move to beverly hills or sumthin and do yoga all the time. wutevah!

From: Scooter Libby
To: Dick Cheney

dude, way hilarious. yur married to a hippie chick! does she light incense and drink tea and stuff like that? hilarious. i'm gonna tell norquist. he's gonna shit a brick. yoga! anyway, pick you up at 7?

From: Dick Cheney
To: Scooter Libby

you tell norquist you die. i'm serious about that.

From: Dick Cheney
To: Scooter Libby

dude, i'm fucking with you!! jesus, you are wound up today or something. you know i wouldn't call a hit on you. not yet at least.... dum da dum dum dum...

From: Scooter Libby
To: Dick Cheney

oh, really scary, i was shaking in my boots. and i'm the one who needs to grow up? i was just taking a shit, bro, it's not like i thought you were furreal. oh, and norquist wants to know what kind of sushi lynne likes!! LOL!

From: Dick Cheney
To: Scooter Libby

you fucker! i told you not to tell norquist. now he'll tell reed and mehlman - those guys can't keep a secret to save their lives. next thing you know there'll be an article in the jew york times about how lynne doesn't shave her armpits and smokes pot all day! LOL! they'll be all like, 'no wonder their daughter's a total muff diver!' dude, my life is over! you suck! i'll see you at seven.

From: Scooter Libby
To: Dick Cheney

seven it is, asswipe. see ya then.


You are bidding on an emotionally-authentic Denison University beer mug that I seem to recollect receiving from "A Million Little Pieces" author James Frey. This very mug may have been involved in a number of the authors drinking escapades while attending Camp Denny-do. It's in perfect condition considering all the tough times it may have been through. I remember that it was signed on the bottom by the author, but the autograph has inexplicably disappeared.

via the Young Professor


I should have bought you at $42!!


Some people ain't no damn good
You can't trust 'em you can't love 'em
No good deed goes unpunished
And I don't mind bein' their whippin' boy
I've had that pleasure for years and years
No no I never was a sinner--tell me what else can I do
Second best is what you get 'til you learn to bend the rules
And time respects no person--what you lift up must fall
They're waiting outside to claim my tumblin' walls
Saw my picture in the paper
Read the news around my face
And now some pepole don't want to treat me the same

When the walls come tumblin' down
When the walls come crumblin' crumblin'
When the walls come tumblin' tumblin' down

Some people say I'm obnoxious and lazy
I'm uneducated--my opinion means nothin'
But I know I'm a real good dancer
Don't need to look over my shoulder to see what I'm after
Everybody's got their problems--ain't no new news here
I'm the same old trouble you've been havin' for years
Don't confuse the problem with the issue girl
It's perfectly clear
Just a human desire to have you come near
Wanna put my arms around you
Feel your breath in my ear
You can bend me you can break me
But you'd better stand clear

When the walls come tumblin' down
When the walls come crumblin' crumblin'
When the walls come tumblin' tumblin' down