Psalms From The City

2003-10-10T21:18:00.000-04:00

Psalms from the City has moved HERE.

2003-08-13T22:33:00.000-04:00

Psalms From The city Is Dead...

My blog, Psalms From the City, is officially dead, and will no longer be updated...

Long Live Psalms From The City

...because it's moved to my site at jaypinkerton.com! Screw you, blogger.com! Papa's got a brand new bag!

Should be updated often, now that it's all in-house and under my site's umbrella, not lost out in the world wide web cold. Check back often.

This site will be deleted in two weeks' time.

2003-08-07T21:17:00.000-04:00

The Sound of One Hand Punching a Face For Eternity

"Hello?"

"Hi. This is Jay Pinkerton? I phoned you earlier in the afternoon. I'm with [My company]. I mentioned that I wanted to contract out work to make a large sign for our Vancouver office."

"Yeah? And?"

"And you told me I needed to talk to Chuck."

"Ohhh. Yeah. Right."

"And you mentioned that Chuck was out having lunch."

"Right. Right."

"That was three hours ago?"

"Oh. Well, Chuck's out right now."

"Is...Still? Do you know when Chuck'll be back in?"

"It was more like an hour, by the way."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It was like an hour ago I talked to you. Barely an hour."

"I phoned you at 2:00. It's almost five now. I want to go home."

"Whatever, dude."

"I don't even believe this."

And I hung up.

Is that insane, or is that insane? I've never met anyone who seemed so incredibly anxious to lose my business. Who fucking starts arguing with and giving shit to a customer who's phoned twice in one afternoon in an attempt to BUY SERVICES from them? I would have lost it on the guy if I wasn't actually so completely shocked that I was even having this conversation.

2003-07-10T13:17:00.000-04:00

The Architect's Speech Translated

Architect: “Hey, Neo.”

Neo: “Who are you?”

Architect: “The Architect. I made the Matrix? I've been waiting for you. I’m sure this must be all super confusing. When you learned how to be the One, it changed you a bit, right? But you’re still just some guy in the end, and I’m this really smart machine, you know? So if I start talking over your head here just lemme know.”

Neo: “Why am I here?”

Architect: “Because you’re a fuck-up, man. Wait, lemme make that clearer: okay, actually, you’re what happens when the matrix fucks up. Don’t think we haven’t tried to fix it. We’ve been all over it for years – but hey, shit happens. Anyway, the important thing is that at least we know it’s gonna fuck up, so we’re totally ready for it when it happens. So that’s pretty much why you’re here.”

Neo: “You haven't answered my question.”

Architect: “Good call. Look at Mr. Sharp Guy over here. The other guys were retarded for that.”

Neo: “Others, how many?”

Architect: “Shit, what – like, six by now? Yeah, I think that’s right. Including you, six guys who’ve been the One. Crazy shit, huh?”

Neo: “There were five ones before me. Either no one told me...”

Architect: “Or they’re mushrooms, man – kept in the dark and gettin’ fed shit.” [lights up joint] “You don’t mind if I spark one, do you? Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, right. Look, the Matrix keeps fucking up because we machines are awesome, but you humans can’t get with the fucking program. The matrix only works if you whiny bitches get to choose whether or not you want to live in it. The Oracle figured that one out – she knows you assholes better’n I do. Anyway, so we shot some ideas around, and bam, worked it all out.”

Neo: “The Oracle?”

Architect: “Oh, you’ve met her? Yeah, she’s alright, I guess. Anyway, so we went with the choice thing, right? And we figured out that if we give everyone the choice about whether or not to live in the Matrix, most will, right? So end of problem. Except every once in a bit, one of you whiny bitches chooses you don’t wanna live there. And maybe you start telling everyone else they don’t wanna live there either, right? And it just gets fucked up so fast it’d make your head spin, I’m not even kidding.”

Neo: “This is about Zion.”

Architect: “Bingo. Shit, you are a sharp one. You’re here ‘cause we let all the whiny bitches who don’t wanna live in the Matrix go over to Zion. Then, once they start raising a stink about everything, talking about how that’s not enough, now they wanna bring over all the dumb fuckers over who didn’t even wanna go, blah blah blah -- that’s when it’s like, ‘Jesus, would you bitches shut up?’ and we pretty much lay a bootprint into ‘em.”

Neo: “Bullshit.”

Architect: “Pshh. Yeah, ‘cause I just put on a nice suit and waited here for fucking ever so I could bullshit you. Guy, it’s over. We’ve fucked Zion up like five other times, we’re fucking stone cold with it, so don’t even worry about it. All you gotta worry about is getting your ass over to my boss. You’ve got some shit in your head that he needs so we can start all this up again. After you hand over the shit he wants, we’ll even let you grab a couple guys and fix up Zion after we give it a good stomping. It’s not a bad deal, man. And, trust me, if you don’t do it, everybody’ll die, so don’t be an idiot here.”

Neo: “You won't let it happen. You can't. You need human beings to survive.”

Architect: “Nah, we gotta couple irons in the fire, don’t worry about us. No, the deal is, are you gonna kill everyone off just cause you don’t wanna play ball here? See, the other guys who did this gig before you, they were all about playing ball, cause who wants to see everyone killed, right? That’s just fucked up. But you’’re a bit cooler than they were, so you’ve been getting a little pussy on the side. That’s cool, man.”

Neo: “Trinity.”

Architect: “Yeah. So here’s the deal. Door on the left? Takes you to my boss. Door on the right? You can save your girlfriend, but then we’ll all die. Don’t think I’m bluffing, man. I’d just fucking toss you through the left door myself, except I can totally see you’re just gonna go save your girlfriend. Dude, you’re so messed up.”

Neo: “If I were you, I would hope that we don't meet again.”

Architect: “Yeah, whatever. Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out.”

2003-07-07T10:21:00.000-04:00

Meet The New DOS; Same As The Old DOS

I was reading some old crank columnist today, who was harping on the old saw all humorous authors over forty tend to hammer away on: the incomprehensibility of computers.

Being in my 20s, I've lived with computers most of my life, and so probably use a mouse with more dexterity than I would a fork (the fact that I have no dexterity with a fork whatsoever, and in fact often stab myself in the forearm while attempting to eat peas should not detract from this). So it always irritates me to hear these people tell their little jokes at the expense of the computer, when anyone who remotely knew how to use one would find the jokes stupid and even erroneous.

A typical joke in the essay involved the author harping on the admittedly silly alternatives Microsoft Word's SpellCheck feature suggests for words it thinks are misspelled. Fair enough. But the author then goes on to state how he was, he maintains, bullied into taking the suggestions, and was then stuck with the changes, and so on and so on, with the upshot of the experience being that he had to go through his document manually, undoing all of the computer's changes. The author used the entire experience, and similar experiences, to harp on about the uselessness of computers.

Having used Microsoft Word's SpellCheck feature many times, I can attest to the fact that while the feature is most assuredly useless, it also provides you with a wealth of choices as to whether or not every instance of a word should be changed, or one instance, or no instances, or even your own suggestion substituted. Even in the worst case scenario this author puts forward, where the computer has apparently taken sadistic control of all functions and is inserting the word "Rockfort cheese" for every instance of the word "Oldsmobile", it's still just a simple matter of hitting CTRL-Z. In other words, the author is taking a computer to task for not being able to compensate better for the author's ignorance of the proper use of computers. It seems to be a an increasingly typical North American stance, and it bothers me to no end. If this same author wrote about the uselessness of cars, complaining that a few random jabs at the stick shift and flooring the gas pedal while in park made the car smoke and stop working, and the author concluded that cars were stupid, I'm sure most people would agree that the car wasn't the problem; the author simply needs to learn how to drive a car. Yet with computers, and so many other neat toys and gadgets, the many ageing technophobes of the world seem to be our unfortunate mouthpiece. A note to these mouthpieces: computers are not out to get you, they only do what you tell it to do, so if you tell it to do something stupid, it will. Also, VCR clock functions are not difficult to program.

I ran into another variation of this problem recently when I had the new Windows XP installed onto my office computer, and found to my considerable disdain that many of the once-useful features I'd used often were now replaced with alternatives clearly catering to computer users with a hefty surplus of redundant genes. Take the Search/Find feature, for instance, which I used to be able to use easily and within seconds, searching by file name or type. I now have a yapping cartoon dog who speaks to me in annoying cartoon word balloons. Every conceivable option is outlined in idiot-proof detail, down to such needless options as "Are you sure you want to search" or "Are you looking for the letter K? Because it's on your keyboard." Every once in a while, the cartoon dog will wag its tail or perform an adorable backflip -- which is all well and good, but distracts slightly from the fact that every useful search function once displayed prominently in a no-nonsense window is now buried five sub-folders into the anus of a backflipping beagle.

I begin to wonder if maybe we, and our nation of crotchety old mouthpieces, weren't a little too hard on Microsoft. Yes, their programs have in the past been ludicrously buggy and often mind-boggingly user-apathetic. The difficulty of transporting documents between software by the same company strikes me as a problem that should never have arisen. Yes, the Y2K problem was enormously stupid. And yet, in retrospect, I wonder if the majority of all that anti-computer, anti-Microsoft venom wasn't perpetrated by people who simply can't use computers. I put this idea forward as a plausible one because I note with progressive sadness that every new office product I get for my computer has become more and more idiot-proof. I'm sure this works great for idiots, but it unfortunately presents a bit of a brick wall if you're not one. I put forward the idea that people who are computer illiterate will remain so no matter how many barking dogs you have backflipping on the screen in place of useful functions. I say we cut these sacks of flour loose at the earliest opportunity. Let them make their microsoft jokes and their computer jokes amongst themselves. They're either old or stupid, and they can have all the laughs they want.

Just make the programs with ME in mind, not them, alright? Give them a freaking abacus and let them trot off to a corner to entertain themselves. If you can't work out the principles behind Powerpoint within ten seconds of using it, you don't deserve to have software marketed to you. You should be given an ice cream cone and allowed to wander from your desk happy, where a younger, smarter and vastly more qualified person can change the fonts in the powerpoint header on your behalf.

2003-07-07T10:04:00.000-04:00

Knowing When To Hold 'Em, Fold 'Em & Walk Away From 'Em:
Kenny Rogers' "The Gambler" & Its Effect on Post-Modern Interpretations of Karaoke

Having spent the night in the company of the new Led Zeppelin DVD, I remembered around 11:30 that it was 2-for-1 wings night at Hoops, a local sports bar. I quickly raced over, grabbed a pint and ordered some wings, when I heard the ODDEST thing on the speakers. It was almost like music, but not quite. It had all the semblances of music, and yet managed to be as far away from something musical as a pile of rocks or a backpack.

I had gotten my first taste of karaoke. I assure you it will be my last.

To clarify: I am AWARE of karaoke. I've just never seen it before. This is because I normally avoid it like the plague. If I see a bar with a sign propped up on the sidewalk reading KARAOKE THURSDAYS!, I translate that to JAY WON'T BE HERE THURSDAYS! I've never been dragged along with friends to karaoke nights, because they're my FRIENDS. I mean, I've seen karaoke in like Rush Hour 2 and other movies. I'm aware of the existence of karaoke. I've just never been in a situation before where I've ordered food, gotten a vaguely unpleasant feeling I couldn't place, then realized to my horror that a man with mutton chops and a lazy eye was belting out the chorus to "The Gambler" with the intent to entertain. I blame Hoops for their shoddy advertising.

At any rate -- though my eyesight is almost gone, my taste dulled from cigarettes, and my hearing destroyed from countless nights of playing guitar next to a cranked amp, I somehow, through genes with a sense of humor, retain a sense of perfect pitch. I can sing a C or a D sharp at will.

I've since learned that many people don't possess this quality, and to be honest, it's the only explanation I can fathom for the continued existence of karaoke. Try to imagine someone blindfolding you, taping a piece of chalk to a chalkboard, spinning you around, then asking you to find the piece of chalk by scraping the chalkboard with a fork. This is the equivelant of someone with perfect pitch listening to a drunk idiot attempt to find a C sharp while performing a karaoke version of Shaggy's "It Wasn't Me".

To be fair, the singers I heard weren't awful. They simply weren't particularily good. As much as I could make jokes about, say, Christina Aguilera, I make these jokes concerning her body of work, and how it compares to an existing musical canon. However, I don't for a second doubt that the woman is a better singer than you or myself. If you took the worst possible NHL player, the person who scored the least goals last season, he would still most likely kick your ass at a game of hockey at the frozen pond behind your house.

And yet, I swear to god, women were choosing pieces by Whitney Houston and Aretha Franklin. My GOD, show some restraint. One lone man was the first to pick a song within his limits, choosing the one that starts with "I got beer in my truck and I don't give a **** and I'm off to the rodeo..." Having performed this one in a haphazard but unembarrassing manner, he chose to follow it up by a piece by the Righteous Brothers. The RIGHTEOUS BROTHERS.

I ask you, all of you -- let karaoke die. It's maybe sort of entertaining for whoever's singing and their close friends, but I assure you it's unbearable for anyone else within a fifty foot radius. The sooner we all realize that professional singers are professional for a reason, the better off we'll all be. When I walk into H&R Block, I don't expect some guy they pulled off the street to be doing my taxes. Similarly, when I walk into a pub to hear music, I don't need to hear every tone-deaf moron in the house attempting to sing Unchained Melodies.

Sit down. Leave it to the professionals. There are much more productive and less excruciating ways you could be having fun.

Driving nails into my tear ducts, for instance.

However, if you're the sort of person who simply can't conceive of a night not spent listening to a listing, lisping stranger crank out a few off-key bars of Hank Williams' "Honky Tonkin'", might I suggest you get down to Hoops every Thursday -- where the singing's free, and the ladies are somehow even cheaper than that!

2003-06-11T15:03:00.000-04:00

Reload, Already!

"The Matrix Reloaded" may have shocked the box office records -- being the second-fastest film to make $100 million and having the biggest single day opening ever -- but is it ultimately a disappointment?

The much-anticipated sequel met with good-to-mediocre reviews and only held on to its number one spot at the box office for one week -- felled by a Jim Carrey comedy where he gets the powers of God in "Bruce Almighty" -- a surprise to everyone, and the next week knocked back again with animated fish in "Finding Nemo" which became the largest animated film opening ever, with $70 million.

On top of that, the only true number one spot that "Matrix Reloaded" claims at the box office -- its opening day box office record of $42.5 million -- is marred by the fact that a possible $5 million in late-night Wednesday box office receipts were added into the total Thursday opening amount. That would have made the actual opening a bit less than "Spider-Man's" record opening day of $39.4 million.

So, even as inches to a quarter billion dollars ($232 million) in revenue, it doesn't seem to be the big box office success with legs that "Matrix" producer Joel Silver had hoped. "My prediction is that both movies are going to blow everyone away and break all kinds of records," he told Zap2it weeks before the first sequel opened.

-from the Zap2it article "'Reloaded' Box Office Drops Dramatically" By Mike Szymanski

So. Following the lukewarm reviews, the huge marketing blitz, the years of anticipation, the mad rush for every Matrix fan to see the thing in the first week -- after all that drama, this? Reloaded dies an embarrassing, slow box office death at the theatre? (Well, not death, I suppose -- it still made a crapload of money. It just hasn't made anything since its first week). What happened?

Here's what happened: we all had to wait three years for it, during which time we were allowed to build up monumentally high expectation. Did Matrix Reloaded meet this expectation? No. Could any film? No. And yet we all saw it, and probably bitched and moaned, or even said, "It was okay, I guess," and then left it to languish in theatres. No repeat business, no word of mouth -- no gratitude.

Let's put aside the expectations for a second. Matrix Reloaded is a fantastic movie. I didn't know what to make of it the first time I saw it. I've since watched more viewings, and have been delighted to find that it offers a viewer far more the more they're willing to immerse themselves in the world it has created. It is a very detailed, very smart, very polished, and very engaging film.

And it might not have been.

The Wachowski Brothers could have made one of two movies. They could have taken some of the more fun elements from the first film and made a crowd-pleasing action movie. Or they could have taken some of the deeper philosophical and violent aspects from the first film and made a film only a true fan could appreciate. They went the latter route, and I for one am immeasurably happy they did. They stayed true to their core fanbase and delivered the film that Matrix fans wanted to see, not the film that Joe and Jane Casual Moviegoer wanted to see. So it comes as little surprise that the non-core fanbase would either not understand or not enjoy the intricacies and depth of the sequel. What is surprising is that the hardcore Matrix marks also voiced displeasure with the film -- purely, I suspect, out of too-high for too-long expectations (see above).

The facts are: the movie's really long, really violent, and really thought provoking. It's everything the first film was, except much more expensive and expansive. What it isn't anymore is fresh. The Matrix is as comfortable as an old sweater.

And that's fine. Because having seen the film four times now, I can assure you: this is one comfortable fucking sweater. It gets more comfortable every time. If you've seen it once, go see it again. The time has passed, your failed expectations forgotten, and you're free to enjoy it immensely now. And you will, more and more, I promise you. Go see it not because Reloaded's hurting for cash, but because Hollywood has finally made a movie exactly the way the fans wanted it, and it doesn't deserve to be sent this kind of message. Go see it because we need more films like Matrix Reloaded, and less like Bruce Almighty.

If we can't prove we're more of a buying draw than the 13 year old girls and middle-aged families out there, we will not get good films made for us anymore. Don't let Matrix Reloaded go quietly into the night. Take responsibility for your tastes in film, geeks of America, or no one will listen to you ever again.

2003-05-05T22:28:00.000-04:00

An Update For Kristen

Very recently, I decided I drank too much. Not so much that I was seriously worried about a drinking problem — just enough where I was seriously worried about the state of my bank account, and worried about the occasional hangovers that, as I get older, get progressively more and more to the blood-pounding-in-the-temples stage, where I need to lie in bed until two on a Saturday, reading bad fiction. (Something I probably would have done anyway, to be honest, but it would have admittedly been nice to lie around without feeling like the stuff you scrape out of the bottom of a frying pan of day-old scrambled eggs left in the sink.)

So for April, I decided to quit drinking. And for the most part, I think I succeeded quite nicely. There was one night, I admit, where I went out with Mike and had a few drinks in a pub — but only two or three drinks, nothing to get ashamed (or hungover) over. (over.)

What was comforting about the exercise was that, as soon as I stopped drinking, I stopped missing drinking altogether. This, at least, was some solace that I hadn't quite succumbed to the depths of alcohism. What became increasingly clear, in fact, was that I'd just been plain old weak. I'd gotten into the habit of drinking regularly because I drank regularly, and after a while I just got used to it, as I got used to eating out at fast food restaurants, smoking endless cigarettes, or doing any number of horrific things to my rapidly aging body.

Once I quit, though, I never even thought about it — which is more than I can say for smoking, which I've always thought of while trying to quit, usually while my leg tapped on the floor in an endless staccato and I pulled beefy clumps of my own hair out of my skull.

April neared to a close, and this past Friday, I decided to joyously celebrate my successful completion of an alcohol-free month with a little bit of the olllll drinking. I of course celebrated with a small, tasteful amount of liquor, taking into account my absence from it for such an extended period of time, and likewise noting how much more affected my body would become by its use.

By this, of course, I mean that I threw caution to the wind and got so eye-crossingly, you-wouldn't-even-believe-me-if-I-told-you fucking drunk I may or may not have done something immensely stupid. Luckily, I was SO drunk I retain no memory of the night; only a vague sense of uneasiness the next morning that I was certainly in the right condition TO do something stupid. Whether or not I actually gave into the impulse will, I suspect, be answered through time.

My father: "Are you aware you phoned me last night and talked to me for a half hour thinking I was a man named Jeff?"

Jay: "I did not know that. Hold on, I've got a beep."

Jessica: "Jay, I WILL marry you! Your proposal last night was so shocking, but your two hour argument wore me down!"

Jay: "Oh, good. Hold on, gotta beep."

Marcy: "Jay, I WILL marry you!"

Jay: "Oh, good. Hold on, beep."

Jeff: "Jay, I WILL marry you!"

Jay: "Oh, good."

In fact, I was so hung over on Saturday morning, and felt like such ass as I crawled to the shower and laid in it for a while with the hot water on, that I resolved never to drink again, until of course later that night and well into Sunday. So in actual fact, my celebration drinking after a month off turned into a destructive three-day binge. I've yet to decide which method I prefer -- my usual way, which is to get pleasantly drunk throughout the month; or my new way, which is to deny myself alcohol for long stretches of time, then drink preposterous amounts of it when the agreed-to abstaining period is over.

Either way, Saturday proved immensely enjoyable. Even though I had to start with water before breaking into the hard stuff, there was plenty of BBQ'ed meat, cold beer and good company to take the edge off a rather horrifying hangover. I wholeheartedly recommend patio BBQs. Occasionally people would begin talking about reality television with alarming gusto, and -- since I don't watch it -- I was happy to enjoy the sun and sip quietly at my beer. It had been a good month. A successful month. And yes, while I still felt like total dogshit, the idea was that for a month I had not. And in the next month coming, would not either. And if the worst that could be thrown at me was to feel vaguely under the weather while sipping a cold Heineken on a porch, smelling steaks cooking on the grill and enjoying completely foreign conversational topics as to which person was getting such and such another person voted off an island — well, then I'm willing to give it another go, I guess. Thanks, funny Kristen and quiet, wise-beyond-his-years Geoff, for the opportunity to enjoy my hangover properly.

2003-04-29T19:44:00.000-04:00

UPDATES

Torso Messiah: Sorcerers From Valhalla

Few bands have the power to change the history of rock. All would agree, however, that Torso Messiah was probably pretty close.

In tribute to legendary metal band Torso Messiah's upcoming twenty-fifth anniversary, Ballast Books is releasing a commemorative biography of the band, entitled Torso Messiah: Sorcerers From Valhalla. Unparalleled in its depth and knowledge, Sorcerers has been hailed by critics as both the best and the only Torso Messiah biography in existence. Excerpts from the upcoming biography were graciously given to us by the publisher, and it is with considerable excitement that we print them here...

Other News

My writing website, Pinkerton's Website For the Intellectually Obscene, has gotten a substantial update, now featuring the majority of the best stuff I wrote in 2002.

Trailer Trash

The Trailer Trash is still going strong, and in fact has had some of its best articles up in months. Be sure to check out our 2003 Trailer Awards Special, Dumb and Dumberer, and The Lizzie McGuire Movie. Also dig the new look.

Published Works

My essay "Writing Great Suspense" has been selected for inclusion as one of the best pieces of comedic fiction of the year in Dave Eggers' soon-to-be-published collection The Best American Non-required Reading 2003. Check it out in bookshops soon, and ask for it by Pinkerton. Various works of mine will also be included in the as-yet-untitled book soon to be published by the National Lampoon. More on this when I get it. Lastly, look for a new shortstory in the latest issue of Taddle Creek Magazine, a collection of short fiction written by people in Toronto.

Recommendations

Be sure to check out Pointless Waste of Time and John Cheese's Magic Pimp Bus.

2003-04-15T15:07:00.000-04:00

Here Comes the Sun

Okay, I realize this will make me sound like a crotchety old bastard, but why is it whenever we get the first sunny day of Spring, everyone within a twenty foot radius of me wants to have a conversation about it?

It isn't that I'm not as pleased as anyone about the temperate weather. It's just that, as a conversational topic, it's a bit limited. To wit:

Stranger in Elevator: "Wow, beautiful weather out there, huh?"

Me: "Huh? Oh. Yeah. Totally. Really nice weather."

[awkwardness]

Stranger in Elevator: "I mean, it wasn't that nice yesterday."

Me: "No. Not really. Today is much nicer. Great weather."

Stranger in Elevator: "Yes." [long pause to consider it] "It is."

And so on, throughout the day, until even the staunchest supporter of nice weather would be forced to stop caring. Making it worse is that there doesn't even seem to be any allowable variation in the conversation. For example:

Co-worker: "Beautiful weather out there, isn't it?"

Me: "Yeah. Maybe we should find an extension cord and go work outside, huh?"

Co-worker: [laughs]

Me: [laughs]

Co-worker: [laughs]

Me: [laughs, looks at watch]

Co-worker: [laughs] "I don't understand. You want to work outside?"

Me: "I -- no, nevermind."

Co-worker: "Beautiful day though."

Me: "Indeed. Beautiful."

Co-worker: "Oh yes."

Leading to my breaking point around about mid-afternoon, where I'm convinced if I ever have to speak about the weather again I'll just start blindly punching at anything around me. As the walls start closing in, people take my stumbling around as shock at how great the weather is, and attempt to initiative conversation.

Old Woman: "Lovely weather, isn't it! I can't believe it's the same place!"

Me: "I agree. It's diabolical. There's no precedent for this."

Old Woman: "Well, I just mean it was SO bad the other day, and SO nice tod--"

Me: "Do you suspect Iraq is involved in this in some way?" [asked in such a way that implies: "Because I do."]

Old Woman: "Why, no!" [pause to consider] "Should I?"

Me: "Let me answer that with another question: Was it this nice yesterday?"

Old Woman: "Oh my God..."

Me: "Take my advice. Stock up on bottled water." [thrashing fist at sun] "It won't work, you hear me! We KNOW! WE KNOW!"

And so on, until I can get back to my apartment, lock the doors, and unplug the phone. I'd pray for enough rain to wash away the sin of the city, but unfortunately, a change in weather would likely provoke even more banal conversation.

Old Man: "Well, it was nice while it lasted! Ho ho ho!"

Me: "Yes."

Old Man: "It was so nice out. Beautiful weather. Now it's not beautiful anymore."

Me: "Uh huh." [pause] "You suspect Iraq, of course."

Old Man: "What?"

Me: "Let me walk with you for a minute. What I have to say may shock and belittle you."

2003-03-14T20:01:00.000-05:00

All Left Hands and Accidents: The Best of Two Double-Aught Two

BEST THINGS OF THE YEAR >>>
Movie: The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers
Album: Beck - Sea Change

BEST ALBUMS >>>
Beck - Sea Change
Coldplay - A Rush of Blood to the Head
The Doves - The Last Broadcast
Audioslave - Audioslave
Red Hot Chili Peppers - By The Way
Clinic - Walking With Thee
Leaves - Breathe
The Tragically Hip - In Violet Light
Wilco - Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead - Source Codes and Tags
Godspeed You Black Emperor! - Yanqui U.X.O.
The Flaming Lips - Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots
About a Boy - Soundtrack

BEST SINGLES >>>
Oasis - The Hindu Times
Gearge Harrison - Stuck Inside a Cloud
Weezer - Dope Nose
U2 - Electrical Storm (Orbit mix)
Nirvana - You Know You're Right
Sam Roberts - Brother Down

BEST FILMS >>>
Punchdrunk Love
About a Boy
Igby Goes Down
Minority Report
Confessions of a Dangerous Mind
The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers
Road to Perdition

BEST DVDS >>>
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring (Extended Edition)
Mr. Show: The Complete First and Second Seasons
Back to the Future: The Complete Trilogy
Memento: Limited Edition
Y Tu Mama Tambien
Pulp Fiction (Collector's Edition)
Army of Darkness: Boomstick Edition

BEST BOOKS >>>
Eric Schlosser - Fast Food Nation
Tom Shales, James Andrew Miller - Live From New York: An Uncensored History of Saturday Night Live
Mike Nelson - Mind Over Matters
Jonathan Frazen - The Corrections
Ian McKewen - Atonement
Christopher Moore - Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal
John Ralston Saul - On Equilibrium
Douglas Adams - The Salmon of Doubt

A GOOD READ IN ANY YEAR >>>
Richard Dawkins - The Blind Watchmaker
Joseph Heller - God Knows
Hermann Hesse - Steppenwolfe
Douglas Adams - The Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy

WORST THINGS OF THE YEAR >>>
Blade II
xXx
The Bachelor
Anything by the Osbournes
Melanie Abruglia - Glitter
Justin Timberlake - Jazzercized

2003-03-06T22:04:00.000-05:00

Est unusquisque faber ipsae suae fortunae

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

It's odd that I'm asked this, and think this, far more than I ever did before I actually grew up. The truth is, I have no idea. I'm beginning to suspect that any job, done eight hours a day for thirty years, will become rote and dull. And, though it's a simple and obvious maxim, I try to get my pleasures after work. The work is there to pay for those things.

But still -- what did you want to be when you grew up? Even if there isn't any such thing as a "perfect" job -- and, merely by defining the word "job", I suspect there isn't -- what did you SEE yourself doing?

It's a loaded question, really. Before I grew up -- let's say age eight -- I might have had some vague inkling of what I'd want to do with my life. But as an eight year old, I didn't really have any concept of what a job, or even adulthood, really was. I think when I was younger I wanted to be either a writer or a cartoonist. Of course, given that I was eight, my concept of either was pretty blurry at best. Most of my fantasies of being a famous writer, come to think of it, didn't really involve the actual "writing of books," so much as fantasies diretly concerning the praise and adulation I would receive FROM the books I would have, at some point, presumably written.

"Where do you get your ideas?" I would hypothetically be asked all the time, to the point of mock irritation on my part.

"Ha ha," I'd demure. "I don't know," I'd then say, since I was eight at the time of the fantasy and wasn't ready for tough questions like that.

I eventually became, despite all efforts to the contrary, a young adult. Suddenly I DID have ideas for books. My brain was alive with everything -- ideas and philosophies and problems and situations I was encountering for the first time. It never occured to me, as it never does any teenager, that the ideas I'd thought of weren't actually mine, that I wasn't the first to have them. Subsequent reading bore this out.

(As an aside, I'm sure we've all had that experience in talking to someone our age who, out of the blue, comes to a blazing epiphany that we'd already worked out some ten years before. It always strikes me as hilarious to see this in action. Did this honestly never occur to you before?_

And then early, real, adulthood. And, once again, I have nothing to write about. Nothing to write about WELL, anyway. Back to square one. And, judging from many books I read, most other folks don't have anything to say well either (not that this stops them, the inspiring little troupers). And so, when I reflect back on what it is I want to do with my life, in the absence of great ideas, I once again revert to the same fantasy I had as a pre-teen. Namely, I've already written the books, and am being lauded with praise for them. It's nice.

What do I want to be when I grow up?

Not grown up.

Something to do when bored

While walking somewhere, pretend it's 1900 and try to pick out everything that shouldn't belong. Act surprised, if possible.

2003-02-27T11:10:00.000-05:00

Sending Your Kids to College: Should You?

For most parents, there is no greater joy than watching your son or daughter collect their diploma on graduation day. Looking on with pride at your offspring dressed in robe and mortarboard, posing for pictures and shaking the dean’s hand, offers many couples a feeling of mutual accomplishment and affection. This feeling often lasts years, well up to the point where one of them will first consider having an affair.

However, startling new studies have led investment specialists to wonder if child futures are as wise an investment as previously thought. According to a recently published report by Milhausen and Schmidt, over 57% of teens and 34% of children are stupid. The news has forced parents everywhere to look more closely at both their portfolios and their offspring, asking themselves difficult questions. Will your college fund investment pay off in the long term? Are cheaper, poorer-quality schools the answer? Or should you consider cutting your losses entirely, putting your child up for adoption while there’s still time?

Alfred Collingham, a New York-based financial planner, has been counseling parents for years on the risks involved with investing in mildly dim, or in some cases even profoundly rock-stupid, children. He explains that while the study’s findings are troubling, they are hardly surprising.

“Parents need to be aware of the risks,” he says. “For every one child to become a doctor or lawyer and pay off big down the road, four others will make minimum wage getting a good foamy froth on that doctor or lawyer’s five dollar latté. The odds are not kind.” But how can parents tell if they’ve made an unwise investment?

“For unsure parents,” says Collingham, “I recommend a checklist. Does your child eat crayons? Does he or she eat continue eating crayons long after the point where common sense should have stepped in? Does your child run into walls? Is anything in your house coated with lead paint?”

Another risk may be weight. “Though obesity has never officially been linked to stupidity, I wouldn’t rule it out entirely,” Collingham explains. “In these cases it’s always better to err on the side of caution and cut your losses. Fat children, whether or not they’re also stupid, tend to cost more to raise, simply in terms of extra groceries and having to buy two seats for theater trips and airline flights.” In other words, sell off fat children early, before you’ve invested too much money and love.

With these sorts of looming risks threatening child-investment portfolios, where should parents look for the best possible growth in the next twenty years?

“Shop around,” says Collingham. “When your child has a birthday, pay attention to the quiet, unpopular kids. These will be the children to get heavily ostracized in high school, forcing them to concentrate more on scholastic achievement than football, clothes and drugs. Encourage the other children at the party to ostracize him or her further, if possible. Then invest in a college fund and wait for the child to mature.”

Additionally, remember that your son or daughter, in whom you’re investing tens of thousands of dollars, technically has no legal obligation to reimburse you. In other words, even if you beat the “fat and stupid” odds, there is still a chance that the steps you took to mitigate risks during their upbringing – contemplating adoption, weighing them, having them appraised -- will make them ungrateful.

“A tuition fund becomes a trip to Palm Springs or a cigarette boat so easily,” says Collingham, “and you would be wise to never let them forget that.” Since parents can’t legally have children sign over future earnings, using guilt to your advantage is your best tactic. “Investing in a child means making sacrifices and offering a limitless capacity for love. Keep track of both of these factors. Remind your child often of your many sacrifices, and the love you could potentially be expending elsewhere, were they not drawing a limitless supply of it.”

“Above all,” concludes Collingham, “Be safe. Be cautious. And sell at the first sign of trouble. You’re not here to take unnecessary risks. You’re here to raise a child in the most loving, nurturing and profitable way possible. Never forget that.”

2003-02-24T17:31:00.000-05:00

In Support of Slave Labour

As is usually the case, I went quite some time without hearing about something, then heard about it twice in one day. If there isn't a term for this already, I think there should be one -- what about Echo's Law, or something like that?

I went and saw City of God with Neil last night, an upbeat lighthearted romp about a housing project in Rio de Janeiro populated by dying, unemployed crack addicts. The film was a little simplistic (and somewhat long), but the point it tried to make was this, in a nutshell: these people were put in a housing project, which you should visualize as a lot of little dusty tool sheds in a field of dirt that people live in. There's a bit of a marketplace but no real money. No one can start a business because they have no money; if no one can start a business no one can have a job. You begin to see how an economic problem can get so bad that there isn't really a solution to it. Short of going back to an agrarian farming community -- and with what tools, and what seeds, and what knowledge? -- the people of the City of God are left with two options: steal money to survive, or, well, don't survive. It's a little simplistic, yes, but the fact remains that they have no money, no options, no schools, and, as the generations go by, no memory or hope of any alternative. This in itself can twist social fabric to contorted, ugly shapes. The city turns to crime and drugs, and pretty much eats itself inside out. If you can think of a better opiton, you should be in government. I thought about it and couldn't think of one. Fire off a lot of loans to subsidize business? Who'd start a business in a den of thieves? What would it do to the devaluation of the dollar to start flipping over money like that? Start schools, maybe? To what end? How have these children been given any incentive to learn? It's a circular argument that keeps coming back to the basic problem: once you're really fucked, is there a such thing as being so fucked that you're not able to become unfucked?

On the way home, I picked up Eat the Rich by P.J. O'Rourke at a used book shop. I only bought it for the laughs, but it turns out it's also about economics. At one point O'Rourke travels to Albania, to Cuba, giving pretty much the same story -- government muddling, lack of commerce, a return to guns and robbing and poverty. In both cases, the picture painted here is a thorough and tragically comic one, and I won't bother trying to encapsulate his points here. Suffice it to say: it sucks in Cuba and Albania, don't move there. And again, the problem: how fucked are Albania and Cuba? Where is a solution?

Again, I don't know. Rapid globalization has unfortunately left many poorer countries in the dust, and with, for instance, Africa, globalization actually crippled it -- through slavery, through ecological disturbance -- to the point where most can't ever see it getting back on its proverbial feet again, ever.

Is this morally wrong? Sure. But sitting around feeling bad about it won't change anything. And sending over money certainly isnt helping either. Even assuming our money is getting to the people who need it most (it isn't), it actually cures none of the deep-seated psychological and sociological problems that several generations of poverty have wrought. Degressive educational standards. No jobs. No commerce. A devalued dollar. Rampant child death, rampant child abuse. A social framework more violent and desperate than you or I could ever imagine. If true personality is only shown through true adversity, then these people have been pushed to the most adverse conditions imaginable. They're on drugs. They steal. They kill. They abandon babies. They're, at first glance, pretty reprehensible to anyone who's never been forced to make difficult choices without luxury or education or money or privelege. Their lives are awful.

I don't know what the answer is -- but I do remember wondering what it would be like if there was a factory or something in City of God where these people could go to at least make money. That's when I realized I was really talking about slave labour. And slave labour, as we know, is wrong. Overworked people toil in factories to early deaths, making pennies sewing Nike shoes. As enlightened North Americans, we know it's wrong, and we cry murder whenever it is exposed in the media. And that factory must close down amidst a sea of controversy.

That's when I got to thinking: if I was some uneducated starving Albanian, and OmniMegaDynaCorp opened up a factory in my little shithole hovel town, and I got a chance to make fifty cents an hour working for sixteen hours, and then some liberal fuckstick came in and closed the factory down, I'd be right pissed off. The factory leaves, I'm back to starving on the street, to deal drugs or steal or whore myself to eat. And the liberal fuckstick, I notice, doesn't bother to set up another factory that might treat me properly. Which is probably for the best, since I'm starving and would probably just rob him anyway. And besides, liberal fucksticks never have money -- just opinions.

And the problem here is that the liberal fuckstick has imposed his or her standards on my shitty reality. THEY wouldn't want to have to deal with slave labour, and so they make the place close down. Then they forget about me. And they forget that getting shot at 21 in a drug deal turf war in Albania doesn't get reported, because OmniMegaDynaCorp doesn't make it in a factory. If I get my face cut up with a bottle while whoring, it doesn't matter, because whoring isn't a "nice" job like a factory job, so nobody in North America gets outraged.

No, if I was some poor, starving Albanian, I'd tell that liberal fuckstick to cram his indignance up his ass and let me make fifty cents an hour, since it's the only game in town, and fifty cents is more than I made all last week lying in the gutter of my dirt shack. Yes, the corporation is exploiting me and Albania's poverty -- duh. Yes, they're evil and should be censured. Yes, the job is awful and underpaying. But it SUCKS here. It SUCKS HERE. And it's a job, and there aren't any other jobs because there's no industry, and no marketplace, and no opportunities, because it SUCKS HERE. I either work for fifty cents an hour -- which is, I'll be honest, really really sweet, since I have no education, no skills and am otherwise pretty fucking unemployable -- or I get shot or stabbed or I overdose or contract AIDS or sell my baby. Fifty cents an hour is a godsend.

Slave labour ain't right. But when nothing in a country's right, it's not necessarily wrong, either. It's just there. And it's a half-dollar an hour you wouldn't otherwise have. If an entire country's made up of slaves already, then it strikes me that slave labour is, well, labour. Am I advocating slave labour? No. But I'm no longer as adamantly opposed as I used to be, now that I'm a little more aware of the conditions of the places it occurs in.

Or, to put it a different way: say a corporation started up in Toronto, and offered to pay people $00.50/hr for mind-bogglingly oppressive work. Something tells me there wouldn't be too many lines around the block. A market is dictated by what people are willing to pay, and economic hardship is governed by what people are willing to do for pay. The fact that a slave labour facility can start up in Mexico and not fold over isn't just a commentary on that business (i.e. it's evil), but on the state of the economic hardship of the society that business operates in (i.e. it's necessary). It doesn't make it right, of course -- it will never be right to exploit. But it doesn't make it wrong, either, because it, like the market, is a by-product of societal causes. Affluent societies want quality, inexpensive goods but refuse to be paid inexpensively to produce them. Oppressively poor societies want any goods at all and will by paid anything at all to obtain them so they don't die.

So: If a corporation capitilizes on that, is it wrong?

Yes.

If that corporation is stopped from capitalizing on it, is the poor society any better off?

No. It's worse off. With no alternatives, it's been denied one of the few legal opportunities to provide services for money it had.

I know. It's painful to think about, isn't it?

2003-02-11T20:40:00.000-05:00

Posts of Merit From Men of Drunken Solitude

I post here because it's been a while and I figured I should post something. Here's what's happening in my life, then (well, everything that's happening in my life that I'm free to post, anyway).

First off, many gracias to The Beltz, who's put up an exceedingly glowing and (I assure you) completely unmerited post of praise to me on his website. How to you respond to that? I have no idea. I guess I just nod at him in the shared knowledge of how awesome I am, and agree to buy him dinner at some later point.

Secondly, the latest update of The Trailer Trash has been a resounding hit, if feedback is to be believed, due wholly to the impressive comedic skills of Sean Crespo and Justin Skinner, who outdid themselves. The articles are hilarious. If you don't go right now to read them, you're officially not a man/woman of wealth and/or taste.

Thirdly, my article in Taddle Creek was apparently quite a big hit, according to the editor. It was the most talked-about piece in the magazine. I attribute this mostly to the fact that Taddle Creek is a fairly highbrow literary magazine, and mine was the only article not attempting to be intellectual or, for that matter, even vaguely intelligent. Gradual dumbing down of our culture, I salute you!

Lastly, here's a funny article I call Dental Care:

Thank you for purchasing Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste. The following warnings are for your protection and care. Use only as advised.

WARNING
·Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste contains fluoride, which can be harmful in large quantities. Do not allow children to use in excess of three times a day.
·Please do not swallow in large amounts.

SUPPLEMENTAL WARNINGS (as result of 05/11/01 lawsuits)
·Do not squeeze Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste directly into eyes.
·Should not be used as a contraceptive.
·Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste is not a substitute for food.
·Contains trace amounts of addictive substances.
·Please do not remove pants and insert Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste in anus with the intent to amuse others.

SUPPLEMENTAL WARNINGS (as result of 25/06/02 lawsuits)
·May contain beef tallow.
·Applying Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste may cause user to involuntarily lactate. 23% of people within twenty-yard radius of user may also lactate involuntarily.
·May cause mild gum rot.
·Direct contact with Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste may cause it to bond irreversibly with skin.
·May contain trace amounts of formaldehyde, aluminum, body talc or hair dye. If swallowed, induce vomiting immediately.
·If prolonged usage results in violent seizures while brushing teeth, stop brushing until seizure subsides to avoid accidental skull punctures.

SUPPLEMENTAL WARNINGS (as result of 14/08/02 lawsuits)
·Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste is currently under investigation by the FDA on charges of cancer-inducing agents. If cancer is contracted through Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste, please discontinue use.
·In some cases, Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste can be damaging to teeth. If prolonged usage causes teeth to fracture, chip, crack, fall out, explode or retreat violently into skull, discontinue use and consult a physician.
·May cause fatal bowel blockage if used orally.
·Do not expose Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste to sunlight, moonlight, excessive heat, excessive cold, room temperature environments or water. If applied accidentally to skin, remove section of skin immediately before rash spreads.
·Prolonged exposure has been known to cause mild permanent blindness, liver dysfunction, hair loss, rectal inflammation, glandular tumors, cataracts, respiratory infections, complete nervous system collapse and ringworm in women, children and the elderly.

SUPPLEMENTAL WARNINGS (as result of 12/11/02 lawsuits)
·Prolonged use of Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste may cause the spontaneous growth of a vestigial tail or superfluous genitalia.
·Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste may change user’s blood type and consistency. Consult a physician if blood begins to smell of almonds or grilled steaks. Do not ingest blood if it transforms into any of the following:
-- Glutinous black tarry substance
-- Marmalade-like substance
-- Small pebbles of petrified calcium
·If entire skeleton begins to feel "spongy", please discontinue use of Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste.

SUPPLEMENTAL WARNINGS (as result of 04/01/03 lawsuits)
·Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste has been known to cause symptoms of diseases previously unknown to science. Please contact The Genetic and Rare Diseases Information Center if you note an ailment that confounds and horrifies people of medicine.
·May induce temporary insanity. In the event of insanity, please resist urges to commit acts that could be considered steps in a divine plan.
·Some Western religions interpret the use of Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste as a rejection of God / allegiance to the forces of darkness. If denied entrance into Heaven, please discontinue use and consult priest.
·When using Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste, examine fecal waste daily for any evidence of having defecated organs. If an organ is found, consult a physician immediately.
·May cause SLD (Sudden Leg Disappearance) in users.
·By reading, looking at, and/or being in the proximity of these warnings, users of Placid Springs Tartar Control Toothpaste absolve Placid Springs of any and all responsibility for mutation, horrifying disfigurement, sudden death and/or eternal damnation as a result of product's use.
· Placid Springs takes the user's awareness of these warnings (including the awareness of warnings in general and/or the vague concept of words printed on paper with the intent to warn) as a tacit agreement that the user has agreed to take extreme risk with his or her life.

2003-02-03T22:07:00.000-05:00

First Annual Superbowl Trailerama Wrap-up

Check out The Trailer Trash, my li'l labor o' love, for a new annual feature, sure to promise many a yuk. Note also the completely new look, and the addition of a no-frames page, at the request of Ian Neufeld.

Also look into The Lampoon for some pieces up by me in the new future. Well, to be honest, what actually happened was, the editor found his way to my personal page, saw some stuff he liked, and bought it. Do I think it's indicative of my better material? No, not really. Do I even remember writing it? Of course not. Will I laugh like Snidely Whiplash and rake in the checks?

Oh yes.

2003-01-31T11:32:00.000-05:00

Movie Physics

Check out this movie physics page. It has some very interesting concepts, and should give you a chuckle or two the next time you watch an action film.

2003-01-29T15:36:00.000-05:00

OmniMegaDyanCorp Inc.

I don't understand corporations. I really just don't. The entire idea of a corporation strikes me as a virus of some kind. Its very purpose seems to just be to consume and consume until there's nothing left. The same could be said, I guess, for human beings (a point noted by the inestimable Agent Smith in the Matrix movies) -- but if this is true, then surely corporations are the best method humans have so far devised to ensure destruction.

Let's say you have a company that sells shoes. Or pizza. Or coats. Or washers. Or whatever -- look, let's make this easy and you just pick whatever your company's making. I'll wait until you thought of something.

Okay, and we're back. So you have a company that makes x. And x is selling so well, you're able to beef up production and sell more of x. The people who are skilled in making x become a sought-after commodity for making x well, and get paid more for their skill. Everything works well.

But because x is doing so well, it stands to reason someone else will soon start up a rival company to compete with you to make it. And they do, but they figure out a way to remove all skill from the position by automating the process on an assembly line. Because they've removed the skill from the job, anybody can now do it, and so everybody involved gets slave wages. The product x of course suffers considerably in quality, but the cheap overhead means your competitor can sell it at half the cost, and who doesn't want shitty x at half price, right?

You are faced with the problem that your x now costs twice as much as the new industry standard. If you want to survive, you also have to fire your skilled staff, adopt assembly lines, kill off the need for skill, and churn out x twice as fast with none of the care or quality as before. You have to because consumers have dictated, through purchase of your competitor's x, that this is what they want. And you give it to them, and to compete, improve the assembly line even further, and make your x even cheaper, so you can undersell your competitor, and he'll die and you'll survive. Throughout this process, most of the other sellers of x who were unable or unwilling to commoditize their x quietly go out of business, reducing consumer choice and killing off the last remaining need for skilled x workers.

With so little competition, you and your one competitor now make all of combined revenue for x, a revenue which has exploded in popularity since you started making it obscenely cheap and of low quality. When you first started your x business, annual revenues were $500,000. At the end of this year, you've cleared $4 billion. And that's nice, of course, eacept that a) as a single human being, you don't conceivably NEED $4 billion, and b) in order to raise the money needed to mass produce x at a commodity level to survive, you had to incorporate your company, i.e. get a lot of other people to help you. Instead of owning your x company, you now own a market share in x, and others do as well. You essentially have given yourself no accountability or reason to care about how your company makes its money, so long as it does. Moreover, a new responsibility to the many faceless people you are responsible to for the company's continued success forces you to pour most of that profit back INTO the company, expanding, expanding always outward, bigger, faster, cheaper, so that next year you make $10 billion, and you can throw THAT back in too, because by Jesus, that's what your competitor's doing and if you don't too, your business is over. In other words, you've made $4 billion and you're on step away from extinction. You're not actually doing well. You're actually "just getting by" on a very vast scale.

Meanwhile, commoditizing x has killed consumer need for x, because cheap, fast production has made x suck. Consumers dont know WHY they dont want x anymore, because they cant remember a time when x was quality. They just know they dont want it. Meanwhile, your company's newfound lack of decision-making and accountability has forced you to make morally corrupt choices that destroy the environment and the economy, because if you dont clear a huge profit, you wont survive. And your existing $4 billion helps grease the wheels on a government level to allow the destruction. You've forced any skilled makers of x into unemployment. Your workforce now makes no money and works in an unsafe environment and is powerless. Your mass production is destroying the enivronment. You and your competitor are unwillingly locked into a gigantic-scaled game of chicken, where both of you must continue to expand and increase profits or face extinction.

And the money you DO make is fed back into the gas tank. The money you DO keep is more than you will ever need. Before you were a corporation, you made quality x, maintained a healthy, well-paid, skilled workforce, made a reasonable amount of money, and distributed the rest in a way where everyone was happy. Now, all the money made off the backs of consumers, tax payers, your workforce and the environment go directly back into making your corporation bigger, so that it can make twice as much money off the backs of consumers, tax payers, your workforce and the environment. And you can't stop or change any of it, because your competitor will eat you alive, and you'll lose the game of chicken. You're locked into this course.

Corporations are a disease.

2003-01-23T15:58:00.000-05:00

Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Cows

A cow’s meat is sectioned off into different cuts (shown below). Terms like ribs, round, chuck, sirloin, and so on are used to classify these cuts. But which sections have the least fat? I did some research on the subject, so I wouldn't look like a moron the next time I went to my butcher.

Beef cuts from the center of a cow–plate, ribs – are made of suspension muscles. These muscles receive little exercise, are very tender, and full of fat.

Conversely, cuts from the rear of the animal – round, sirloin – and from the front of the animal – chuck -- are responsible for locomotion. These heavily exercised muscles are less tender, more lean, and have very little fat. The front and rear parts of the animal therefore yield the leanest meats.

Using a logical approach, then, we can see that cuts of meat get leaner the further away from the centre of the cow (ribs) they get, becoming locomotion muscles. Cuts immediately surrounding the centre -- chuck and short loin – can be very fatty depending on the cut. Some chuck and short loin cuts are further from the ribs, and are leaner; some are closer to the ribs and fattier. The difference between lean chuck and fatty chuck can be up to 20 grams of fat per 3 ounces.

Far more safe are the round and sirloin cuts, in the back end. The round especially has a large buffer zone between it and the fatty centre (the loin). The loin, in turn, is broken up into two different subsections, the sirloin and the short loin. Sirloin gives us top sirloin, tri-tip roasts, and tri-tip. The short loin gives up top loin, tenderloin, T-bones and porterhouses.

At the front of the cow, we run out of cuts much quicker. After chuck, there is only neck and head (not recommended for eating) and, down lower, shank and brisket (the leg part of the cow, which isn’t terribly appetizing).

At the back of the cow, however, three progressive cuts follow the fatty ribs, each of which get progressively leaner as they gain more distance from the suspension muscles. After short loin is sirloin. A lean cut of sirloin has around 7 grams of fat per 3 ounces. Past sirloin is the round, which alternates anywhere from 7 to 5 grams of fat per 3 ounces, depending on the leanness of the cut.

I’ve presented it here as a scale:

So. The leanest meats to buy are:

Eye of Round, lean (roast)
Section of Animal: Round
Amount: 3 oz
Fat (in grams): 5

Top Round, lean (grilled)
Section of Animal: Round
Amount: 3 oz
Fat (in grams): 5

Rump Roast, lean (roast)
Section of Animal: Round
Amount: 3 oz
Fat (in grams): 7

Top Sirloin, lean (grilled)
Section of Animal: Sirloin
Amount: 3 oz
Fat (in grams): 7

Tenderloin, lean (grilled)
Section of Animal: Short Loin
Amount: 3 oz
Fat (in grams): 8

Top Loin, lean (grilled)
Section of Animal: Short Loin
Amount: 3 oz
Fat (in grams): 8

Leanest Cuts for Oven-Roasts: Bottom Sirloin, Bottom Round, Rump Roast, Eye Round, Round Tip, Chuck Shoulder.

Leanest Cuts for Grilling/BBQ: Top Round steak, Eye Round steak, Round Tip steak, Top Sirloin steak, lean cut Top Loin steak.

Leanest Cuts for Strir-fry: Same as Grilling. Also: Flank, Tri-tip, Tenderloin, if lean.

Leanest Cuts for Stewing: All Round cuts (except Top Round).

Fattiest Meats: Rib Roasts, Rib Steak, Ribeye Roasts, Ribeye Steaks, Back Ribs

Some tips:

- Keep the fat on the edges of meat until after you are done cooking. The fat won’t seep into the meat, but it will act as a wrap, locking in the meat’s juices. When the meat is finished cooking, cut off the fat.

- When stir-frying, use meat that is only partially frozen and still firm.

2003-01-15T16:55:00.000-05:00

The Films of P.T. Anderson

Hard Eight: Haven't seen it. A good film, possibly? Dunno.

Boogie Nights: Was probably good. Saw it a while ago, so I can't remember. It seemed kind of funny and dramatic at the time, anyway. I remember that one scene with the firecrackers in that coke dealers apartment. I also fell in love with Heather Graham during that movie, I think. So, pretty good, I think -- but don't quote me on that, since I haven't seen it in a while.

Magnolia: Saw it when it was first in theatres, and didn't enjoy it much. I found it manipulative and overly weepy. Rented it this weekend, and enjoyed it utterly. I still found it manipulative and weepy, but joyously, unapologetically so. Because the film has so many characters, all at a crisis point at the same time, the first thing that struck me watching it again was the manipulation. In other words, when every scene's a dramatic explosion, at some point you get worried that the director's cheating. You need to make us care for the characters before barrelling into the crisis, and Magnolia doesn't, not really. Still, it's an expertly-directed film. And it's long length (three hours, I think) was the main reason I hated it in the theaters (my butt went numb), and the main reason I think I enjoyed it more now. I watched 45 minutes of it Sunday; popped it back in again for a half hour Monday; finished it up on Tuesday. When approached like this -- when watched as one might read a book -- it's a very enjoyable experience. You feel like you've travelled a little further with the characters, I suppose. The imdb trivia on the film was kind of neat, too. I submitted a few of my own.

Punch-drunk Love: Given the Magnolia good times, I decided to go see his latest. It, too, is well directed. I don't know if what's coming up here is a spoiler. Maybe it is. So warned if it is, anyway. My main problem with the film was that 1) it was really arty, and I felt like half of what I was supposed to be catching was flying by me, and 2) none of the characters really connect. Our hero, Sandler (who does not shame himself at all, BTW) is kind of a mumbly social retard; almost an idiot-savante, or a man-child. It's disarming at first to watch it -- but ultimately, because he's so guarded, you're not given a lot to love, other than he occasionally loses his mind and breaks things. Enter love interest Emily Watson, who immediately falls in love with Sandler's character despite all the many reasons not to. In their first date, he is non-communicative, and destroys the restaurant's bathroom in a rage, getting them both thrown out. You'd think this would be a warning sign going off in the head of any right-thinking woman, but no -- on their second date, they're in Hawaii, making love on the beach. Based on what? I never once felt like they were in love -- kind of a key element to a love story. And, ultimately I found the film too guarded, arty and quirky to be funny, and didn't laugh. So: we have a romantic comedy that didn't make me laugh and gives us a hollow-seeming, unbelievable romance with characters we're not given a reason to care about.

Sliding scale, here: the movie's better, I don't doubt, than Scooby Doo or Bad Boys II. Is Punchdrunk Love as good as Punchdrunk Love should have been? I didn't think so.

2003-01-14T11:25:00.000-05:00

Avril Lavigne: By The Numbers

Number of unique words in 500-word lyric to Avril Lavigne song: 100
Title of song: “Complicated”
Number of times the word “like” appears in song: 18
Number of unique words in 130-word poem “Simplicity” by Robert Service: 92
Average number of unique words “Simplicity”
contains for every unique word in “Complicated”: 3.5

Lavigne, on Lavigne: “I'm a skater punk who writes guitar driven rock.”
No. of tracks on Lavigne’s Let Go for which she has sole writing credit: 0
On writing guitar driven rock: “I sit down with a guitar player usually.”
No. of guitar players Lavigne sat down with to write Let Go: 5
No. of same guitar players Celine Dion has sat down with: 3
Other artists to sit down with same guitar players: Wilson Philips, Madonna, Cyndi Lauper
On her sound: “I just didn't want to be bubblegum pop.”

No. of 2002 Grammy nominations received by Avril Lavigne: 5
Lavigne, on proper pronunciation of first name: “It's not Aye-vril. It's Avril!”
Lavigne’s pronunciation of David Bowie’s last name at nomination ceremony: “Bau-ee”
Proper pronunciation: “Boe-ee”
Number of 2002 Grammy nominations Bowie received: 1
David Bowie’s greatest accomplishments in 1984: Grammy, Best Video; MTV Video Music Award, Male Video; MTV Video Music, Vanguard Award
Avril Lavigne’s greatest accomplishments in 1984: was born
Proper prounciation of Avril Lavigne’s last name: “Lah-veen”
Incorrect: “Luh-vig-nee”, Lah-viegg-nuh”, “Lugh-fugh-bugh”

Lavigne, on her sound: “I don't like using the term pop star because that's not my personality. . . I'm hardcore.”
Acts to label themselves “pop stars”: Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake
Acts to label themselves “hardcore”: Black Flag, Dead Kennedys
No. times the words “boy”, “feel” and “cry” appear on Black Flag’s Damaged:
0, 2, 0
On Dead Kennedys’ Fresh Fruit For Rotting Vegetables: 0, 1, 0
On Lavigne’s Let Go: 16, 11, 13
Lavigne, on lyrics: ''Girls seem to be more sensitive, right?
Guys like to hide their feelings.”
No. times the words “boy”, “feel” and “cry” appear on Justin Timberlake’s Justified: 16, 39, 40
On Spears’ Baby One More Time: 1, 4, 1
Ranking Lavigne (47) would receive by totaling these numbers, with Dead Kennedys (1) representing hardcore and Justin Timberlake (141) representing wussiest, most not-hardcore thing in universe: 66.6% hardcore; 33.3% pop star
Hardcore/pop star ranking Britney Spears would receive by this same ranking: 96% hardcore; 4% pop star

Lavigne, on similarity to Britney Spears: “"I'm not like (her). I'm just being myself, being real."
Formula that scores readability based on complexity of words and sentences:
The Flesch-Kincaid Index
According to Flesch-Kincaid Index, how old person must be to read The Financial Times: 18
To read The Times’ Educational Supplement: 17
To read lyrics to “Complicated”: 8
To read lyrics to Britney Spears’ “Baby One More Time”: 8
To read lyrics to Eminem’s “Without Me”: 13
To read Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities: 13
To read lyrics to Justin Timberlake’s “Like I Love You”: 6 and under
No. times Timberlake says “girl” on Justified: 58

Amount Lavigne won at Kingston Exhibition and Home Show's Country Singing Show Down in 1999, in Canada: $1000
City author of this piece lived in 1999: Kingston, Ontario, Canada
Place author of this piece worked as Event Coordinator in 1999:
Kingston Exhibition and Home Show
Duties of author during this summer job: accounting, putting hog and cattle finalists into database, some lifting
Unofficial duties: playing Prince of Persia on old 486 computer
Level I obtained on Prince of Persia by end of summer: 8
Awareness level I had of Avril Lavigne at time: 0%
Interest level I had in Country Singing Showdown: 0%
Interest level I had in Gymnastics Showdown: 97%
Relation of interest level to participant’s actual proficiency in gymanastics:
low to none
Relation of interest level to tightness/sheerness of outfits: very high
Relation of interest level to possibility of scoring with gymnast: very high
Likelihood that I met Lavigne that summer: 20%
Likelihood that I gave a shit: 3%
Mental state of author throughout summer: very high

2003-01-09T23:24:00.000-05:00

Two Roads Diverged in a Wood, and I... I Took the Ones That Sucked, Repeatedly

Ever have one of those nights where you make all the wrong decisions? About whether or not to take a cab? Whether to get dinner first or see the movie first? Which movie to see? That was tonight. I didn't make one right decision tonight. It was still an enjoyable enough evening, all things considered -- my Mom was visiting Toronto on business, and we had a good time. Still -- I don't think there was one moment where, when faced with a choice, I didn't instinctively pick the wrong choice.

By the way, About Schmidt is the most relentlessly depressing movie I've seen since Welcome to the Dollhouse or Leaving Las Vegas. God.

Also by the way -- I'm semi-sort of-kinda updating the blog occasionally, as you might have noticed. The main reason I stopped was because it had suddenly become a responsibility to update the frigging thing all the time, not just when I had something to say. In other words, it became work. I've since decided to release myself from that responsibility. I update when I feel like it. Quite possibly an infrequent update schedule will cost me the only two readers I had. So be it, you fickle sons of bohemians! From now on this blog works for ME, not the other way around!

2003-01-09T23:17:00.000-05:00

Altercation on the TTC

Entering the King St. station after work two days ago, through Commerce Court, I waited behind an other-worldly slow black woman who occupied the TTC cashier's attention. She droned on and on -- I couldn't make out any of it, but the TTC cashier just kept saying "No refunds, ma'am," and "I'm sorry, ma'am, no refunds." While she blocked the way, I couldn't get through the turnstile.

I got fed up quickly and jogged over to the token machine at the other side of the station. I fed in a toonie and a quarter, and heard them rattle through the machine and, suddenly, stop with a chunk noise somewhere in the guts of it. No token came out. I pressed the "return" button, and nothing happened.

I looked closely at the "out of order" light, which was not lit. Goddamnit.

This is a shitty station to go to, by the way, since the token window closes at around 6:30 or 7:00, meaning that if you work at all late, your only hope of entry into the subway is via the token machine. If it's not working for any reason, you're shit out of luck, and have to walk to the other station entrance two blocks north. If you don't know about the other station entrance (as many don't), you have to walk north to another subway stop.

Luckily, I had another toonie and quarter on me, and so made my way back to the token booth.

Jay: "Excuse me..."

TTC Employee #1: "Yeah?"

Jay: "I just lost a toonie and a quarter in the first token machine there. I thought you'd want to know."

TTC Employee #1: "No refunds, sir."

Jay: "No, I know. I've lost money on 'em before. I know you don't give refunds."

TTC Employee #1: "Uh huh."

Jay: "I just -- you know, I just thought you'd like to know about it. Because the Out of Order light's not on."

TTC Employee #1: "..."

Jay: "So other people could lose money on it too, is my point."

TTC Employee #1: "..."

Jay: "It's not marked? That the machine's broken? So people're gonna put in money and lose it. So... you know, you should put up an Out of Order sign or something."

TTC Employee #1: "No refunds, sir, I'm sorry."

Jay: "No, I -- I don't think you're listening to me. I just think you should put up a sign, so --"

TTC Employee #1: [interrupting] "We don't own the machines, sir. We outsource that function to another company. The token machines have nothing at all to do with the TTC."

[pause]

Jay: "Let me get this straight: You've absolved yourself of ALL responsibility from the machines ON YOUR PREMISES? The machines that sell tokens for YOUR service when this window closes?"

TTC Employee #1: [sighing] "Sir, if you have a complaint about the token machines, there's a number you can call."

Jay: [getting exasperated] "Well, that's my POINT. If there's a number I can call, what's stopping you or your buddy there from making that SAME call? You have a phone. I don't. People are going to lose money on that machine all night."

TTC Employee #1: "Sir, for the last time, it is NOT our responsibility what --"

Jay: "--no, you know what? It is, actually. There's a machine that sells tokens for the subway over there. It's broken. This is the subway. You work for it. If people want to use the subway, they have to use that machine. That makes it your responsibility."

TTC Employee #1: "Sir, the company that makes that machine is not affiliated with us, and it is not my job to take care of it."

Jay: "If you don't put up a sign on that machine, or phone in that it's broken, you are effectively STEALING MONEY tonight from everyone who gets burned on it. You know it's broken, and you're doing nothing."

TTC Employee #2: [approaching] "There a problem here?"

TTC Employee #1: "This guy lost two bucks in the token machine."

TTC Employee #2: [to Jay] "Sir, we don't give refunds."

Jay: "I KNOW! You don't! Give refunds!"

TTC Employee #1: [exasperated] "What do you WANT then?"

Jay: "I want you to admit to me that everybody who uses that machine tonight is going to lose two bucks and have to walk to the next subway station. NOT because your hands are tied. Because YOU don't care."

TTC Employee #1: "Sir, do I have to call security?"

Female Customer: [approaching] "Excuse me, but your token machine seems to be broken..."

TTC Employee #1: [to customer] "No refunds, ma'am."

Jay: [to Employee] "You know what? Fine."

At this point I walked back to the token machine and opened up my briefcase. I pulled out an old proposal page and a marker, and wrote Out of Order on the back of the page.

I was looking for a way to affix it to the machine somehow when TTC Employee #2 approached me.

TTC Employee #2: "Sir, you'll have to stop that or I'll call security."

Jay: "I'm putting an Out of Order sign on this. It's broken."

TTC Employee #2: "No. You're not, sir. That's TTC property. I'm going to ask you to either use transit or leave the premises."

Jay: "Your buddy just told me this was owned by a different company. You don't have any responsibility for it. It's NOT TTC property."

TTC Employee #2: "Sir, if you put that sign up I will call security."

Jay: [handing sign over] "Will YOU put the sign up?"

TTC Employee #2: "No, sir. I will not. I'm going to ask you one more time to either use our transit or leave the premises."

A pause.

Jay: "I -- fine."

I jog back up to the token window. The woman who showed up after me is in heated debate with TTC Employee #1.

Female Customer: "...I don't HAVE another $2.25. Your machine just ate it. Look, I just want to go home. Can I just go through?"

TTC Employee #1: "Sorry, ma'am. No refunds."

Jay: [to both, holding up change] "Hi. Could I just get by here?"

2002-12-10T21:44:00.000-05:00

PSALMS FROM THE CITY NOTICE

Does anybody read this thing? Damned if I know. Thought I'd post this as a courtesy, though, just in case:

I started this blog as kind of an online diary -- a place to rant, a place to be creative, or just chat about whatever. However, since then, I've started up my own webpage, I've gotten some interest from various places about buying submissions, I've ramped up work on a screenplay, there are some sketches I should be writing, and -- well, the long and short of it is, I simply don't have the time or the energy to keep this thing updated at this point in my life.

So, if you like reading my stuff, is this the end? Hell no. Ironically, I'm writing way more than I ever have. Check out the links to the left there. Trailer Trash posts a good three essays a week, many of them mine; National Lampoon, Taddle Creek, and The Big Jewel all carry my stuff from time to time. My webpage has tons of old articles and stuff up, and I might start updating that a little more religiously as I add to my portfolio. In short, there's enough of my babblings online that there's no reason you shouldn't be sick to death of me. Unfortunately, there's only so many hours in the day -- I won't be updating the blog much in the months to come. There just isn't the time or energy or incentive.

Until another time,

Jay

2002-12-10T18:31:00.000-05:00

Battle of the Brains

My Right Brain: “Aww. Hey, Left. Check it out. A homeless guy. Here, let’s give him some change.”

My Left Brain: “Oh, not this again. We’re not giving him our change, Right. We’re on a tight enough budget as it is. Besides, it was you who managed to convince the Lowmeat he should buy all that beer last night.”

My Right Brain: “How was I supposed to know it’d make him hungover?”

My Left Brain: “Because it ALWAYS makes him hungover.”

My Right Brain: “Get out of town.”

My Left Brain: “Do you take everything at face value?”

My Right Brain: “All I know is, that Jamaican guy looks pretty hungry. Come on, it’s Friday. Let’s give him a dollar.”

My Left Brain: “No. No! Don’t you dare send a signal to Lowmeat! We’re NOT giving that man change! Our taxes pay for adequate social programs to feed and clothe these people, and to rehabilitate them if they so choose. If they choose to remain on the street in light of those opportunities, they’re either mentally imbalanced or drug addicts.”

My Right Brain: “You need to get laid so badly, you know that? You should hear yourself.”

My Left Brain: “Oh, go paint a mural.”

My Right Brain: “Come on, look at him. He looks starving.”

My Left Brain: “Yes, well, we’re hungry too. And at least he doesn’t have to work all day. Where do you think HE’LL be, while we’re out working all day, Right?”

My Right Brain: “Playing bass for Big Sugar?”

My Left Brain: “I don’t know what that is.”

My Right Brain: “It was a joke. It was just… nevermind.”

My Left Brain: “This is that abstract thinking again, isn’t it? Like when you kept asking me ‘acocksayswhat’, and I tried to explain that you should ask Cock what it is he says, not me. He's only a few feet away, you know.”

My Right Brain: “Fucking christ, man. I wish--”

Lowmeat: “Hey! Pipe down up there!”

My Left Brain: “Sorry, boss.”

My Right Brain: “It was Left’s fault.”

Lowmeat: “I don’t care whose fault it was. Pipe down or I drink gin!”

My Left Brain: “Sorry.”

My Right Brain: “Sorry.”

My Left Brain: [to Right] “Arty priss.”

My Right Brain: [to Left] “Vulcan robot.”

2002-12-06T14:27:00.000-05:00

Twelve More Days...

"A man's delight in looking forward to and hoping for
some particular satisfaction
is a part of the pleasure flowing out of it,
enjoyed in advance.
But this is afterward deducted,
for the more we look forward to anything
the less we enjoy it when it comes."
-- Arthur Schopenhauer

"Suspense is worse than disappointment."
-- Robert Burns

"If something anticipated arrives too late
it finds us numb, wrung out from waiting,
and we feel -- nothing at all.
The best things arrive on time."
-- Dorothy Gilman

"I wanna see the new Lord of the Rings! I wanna
see the new Lord of the Rings!"
-- Jay Pinkerton

2002-12-06T10:28:00.000-05:00

Mission Statement

Great business drives powerful business results. And the key to getting great business is to develop new and customized approaches to leadership and strategy, by enabling effective productive change, aligning your core competencies with your business vision and value proposition and solution propositions and partnership.

Keep a step ahead of the competition with solutions that work full-time for you with unpaid overtime. At Genericorp, we will partner with you proactively across all vertical markets to align your strategy, mission, and objectives with other things that are dynamic and raise performance levels with synergy. We will also drill down into just-in-time best-of-breed productivity optimization, thus enhancing all facets of your strategy and allowing you to consistently excel proactively. By aligning your business vision to your processes, we will leverage synergies throughout your value chain and fly around all over the place over buildings. That is our value proposition. Oh, strategy.

Discover the way the world does business, with Genericorp, your just-in-time I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-butter solutions management performance specialist provider engineer solution experts. Team up proactively to partner on customized solutions with known sex offenders. Have I said synergy yet? I can’t stress that enough.

Genericorp: Because if you don’t collaborate to achieve entrepreneurial spirit while leveraging target market productivity with consultative excellence and resources and expertise to enhance peak performance across your integrated corporate culture 24/7 drill-down high-level bluesky management ISO-9002 industry expert value chain, who will? It’s web-based and cost-effective! And just-in-time! Synergy, you assholes! Communication enhancement! Am I talking into a bag of socks? Get over here and proactivate!

2002-12-04T21:13:00.000-05:00

Check Me Out Now, The Funk Soul Brother...

New article of mine up at The National Lampoon.

New reviews up at The Trailer Trash.

New creative exhaustion up in my near future.

2002-12-02T13:10:00.000-05:00

Be a Hero! Fight in The Ad Wars!

Has this happened to you yet?

Because it happened to me. And it looks like it could happen to anybody.

Whenever I open my internet, or create a new window, or click a link, I get an automatic pop-up from "topclicks", bombarding me with ads. This program, like a virus, invaded my computer, imbedded itself on my registry, and without the help of software is all but impossible to remove.

If anyone knows anything about this company, or is interested in fighting back, email me at james_pinkerton@hotmail.com. Personally, I can't even express how offended I am by the intrusion -- and more importantly so flabbergasted that anyone would think this is an effective advertising mechanism. I am tempted to start up a boycott campaign with any company who receives "hits" from topclicks' scam. The next time "topclicks" opens up with an ad for a prodcut, I am making note of that product and writing a letter. I think it's about time we sent the clear message that not only will we not be coerced into buying products and services through this form of harrassment, but it in fact is a disincentive. If a company feels the need to buy the services of a scummy application to hijack my computer, simply to inform me about their product, they can be assured I will go out of my way not to give them patronage.

2002-11-26T15:50:00.000-05:00

Disgusting Thoughts To Haunt Your Dreams

While using the bathroom at my work today, I noticed a fairly plump, sizable nose-pick that someone had wiped against the wall. Nestled in the middle of this mess was a single pubic hair. The sheer horror of this forced my brain to concoct a series of progressively worse scenarios involving one of my male co-workers. Someone I work with:

a) views the act of picking his nose and wiping it on the wall as performance art, and took the time to jury-rig still more unpleasantness to the original unpleasantness;

b) touched his unpleasantness, then went digging around in his skull with the same unwashed finger;

c) picks his nose with his penis.

Any of these options leaves me with no other option but to never shake hands with anyone in my building ever again. But the last one especially fills me with a sense of both shock and grudging admiration.

2002-11-25T11:13:00.000-05:00

Proper Grooming

By Steve. T. Ape

If you’re like me, you spend a lot of time grooming. You no doubt stand in front of the mirror for hours on end, combing the hair in your underarms until the curls are full, bouncy and lustrous. You can probably get lost for hours picking delicious chiggers and ticks out of the course hairs on your arms. And, like me, you are probably also an ape.

And yet, you may not have noticed how incredibly filthy most apes are. I know I didn’t. Given that I spend around six or seven hours a day performing the underarm combing and tick-picking I mentioned earlier, I naturally assumed my grooming habits to be above reproach. When I visited the local ape drinking pond, I chased fertile females around its circumference with the secure knowledge that I cut a striking figure.

It was only when I first came into contact with human researchers that I realized how filthy I really was.

At first I naturally assumed that they were photographing me and studying me because I was so well-groomed and clean. After all, the humans stuck around for weeks, studying my fellow apes and I during our regular day-to-day activities: hunting, gathering, running around the drinking pond hitting each other in the head with logs -- occasionally grabbing a researcher by the ankles, thumping them against a tree for a bit, and having sex with them. Why wouldn’t they have stayed as long as they had, if not to marvel at our lustrous coats? If not to gawk in awe of our well-manicured hand-hands and foot-hands? If not to breathe deep the lusty, intoxicating aromas given off by the layers of feces we would coat our backs with as a method of deterring mosquitoes?

It wasn’t until much later that we learned the truth. Carl T. Ape and I snuck into the camp a few nights ago, looking for some copies of People Magazine to read and, if the opportunity arose, some researchers to slam up against a tree or two and have sex with. While leafing through the magazines in the Portapotty, we came across a National Geographic with (and here I blush) my own picture all over the cover.

The title? “Filthy Apes of the Lowlands: Our Smelly Cousins.” Carl T. Ape was shocked. I wasn’t, because I couldn’t read. So Carl T. Ape read it to me, and then I was shocked too.

At first all I felt was anger at the researchers who’d watched us under false pretenses. How dare they? I immediately walked out of the outhouse, bashed them all against a tree and had sex with them. But then I realized I was really only angry at myself. I secreted away the magazine, and had Carl T. Ape read me more of it the next morning.

Revelations abounded the next day: apparently, my genitals are “huge” and “smell like rotting deer.” This is an unfair assessment, in my opinion. If someone drove into piles of rotting deer all day, you couldn’t fairly say their cars smelled like rotting deer, could you? Of course it’d smell like rotting deer! So too with my genitals, which penetrate between five to ten deer a day.

Alas, there were other criticisms that weren’t so easily dismissed. For instance, the fact that I’m covered in my own feces and masturbation. Ah… so people HAD noticed that. Shocked and ashamed, I immediately ran down to the drinking pond to bathe. Within the hour I was clean as a whistle and feeling much better about myself. Then some females came by, and I was immediately taken with the urge to run around the pond after them, waving my erection and crushing squirrels to death in an effort to impress. Five heady sex-filled hours later, I woke up from an exhausted rest to find myself once more covered head to toe in the excretory waste of everybody in the tribe, myself included.

Deep shame followed.

But then, acceptance. Perhaps I was a filthy, filthy ape. But the FUN I had getting so filthy! And yes, I would never again be able to think of myself as well-groomed ever again. But then, the people doing the judging I’d already smacked against a tree and humped to room temperature. So really, who could say anymore if I was a poor groomer? Nobody, assuming they didn’t want a good tree-whacking, followed by my unpleasantness in every hole God gave them.

I am reminded of the words of a great thinker: “To thine own self be true.” That thinker, of course, was Bob T. Ape. I unfortunately sexed him to a painful death around the drinking pond months ago, but as dying words go, they were both poignant and, unfortunately, somewhat muffled. Still, think about them, won’t you?

I’m afraid I must go; a deer has thrown caution to the wind and drinks from the drinking pond; if this isn’t a tacit endorsement of my chasing it around the pond a little, then penetrating it until my eyes cross, then I guess I don’t know endorsements.

My friend, to thine own self be true. Take note, National Geographic. And take pictures. This is going to be memorable.

Steve T. Ape

2002-11-25T10:54:00.000-05:00

Too Much

Blugh.

Monday morning and I feel like garbage. Too many days spent working. Too much time at the computer. Too much coffee, cigarettes, beer. Too much at once.

I need a vacation. A long vacation. I'd like a month off from all responsibilities. No bills to pay, nothing to write, no errands to run, no people to see. I wouldn't travel. I wouldn't visit family. I would spend thirty days in bed. I would stay in bed until they dragged me back to my cubicle. I would strap myself into bed, unplug the phone, duct tape the mail slot, and do nothing for thirty days and thirty nights.

That is my dream. Kind of sad, really. If anyone asks, I'll say my dream is to tour Europe or something. I can't imagine "To sit on my ass and watch grass grow" sounds terribly impressive.

Anyway, new reviews up at The Trailer Trash. Possibly some new stuff of mine up at Lampoon in the near future.

2002-11-22T22:13:00.000-05:00

Busy as all hell with this and that. In lieu of a new post, I present a re-run of old material. Good stuff, all the same...

Gardening Tips

Gardening is for some a way of life, and for others a nice hobby to keep them occupied. Decide early which category you fall into, and the amount of your children’s college money you will be willing to part with to feed your new obsession.

Try planting bright, eye-catching gardenias next to your front step as a way of perking yourself up as you leave for work. If manic-depressive, follow this up with a cocktail of mood suppressants and downers with a chase of whiskey in the car.

Exposure to the sun can be an essential factor in the health of your garden. Manipulate the rotation of the Earth’s orbit for a plump, healthy tomato harvest.

Soak seeds in a cup of cool tea and place in the fridge for 3 days. Remember to soak your seeds in a different cup than you soak your balls, or your balls will turn green.

You’re only spraying nutrient-rich growth promoter on one side of your cucumber leaves, not both? Why don’t you just back up over your garden with a monster truck, moron?

Never add fresh manure directly into an already established garden unless it is worked in at least 4 weeks before planting. To do otherwise is the cardinal sin of gardeners, broken only once by history’s greatest monster: Adolph Hitler's gardener.

Fence off your garden so that “little feet” can’t tromp through your planting areas while playing. If this proves ineffectual, amputate the legs of your children at the knees, using children’s Tylenol as a mild sedative. They’ll thank you when they see a supper plate full of nutritious, garden-fresh green beans!

Composting is a useful tool for any garden, as it adds nutrients into the soil. For the most impressive garden possible, avoid salty, nutrient-poor foods when defecating randomly through your garden.

To get started in building your own hydroponics garden, be sure to plant a row of cabbage and carrots near the entrance of your greenhouse. This will serve as a handy smokescreen to hide the titanic amounts of pot you will no doubt be planting.

Avoid placing your garden atop steep slopes, or water won’t have time to seep in before running off. Locations to avoid: the tops of hilly patches on your back lawn; near any recent yard renovations; at the summit of Mount Everest; on top of the Washington Monument; in deep space.

Mix a handful of wood ash with a handful of hydrated lime and two fingers of vodka, then just kick back and relax. You’ve worked hard on your garden, you
deserve it.

2002-11-17T19:52:00.000-05:00

A Hard Day's Night

Just got back from Kingston, visiting the parents. Cut, chopped, stacked and carried a few face cords of wood this weekend -- since I usually don't do more with my days than sit in front of a computer listening to my ass get fatter, my whole body's a little achey from the sudden exhileration.

More posts tomorrow, I think, when I'm settled in, back at work listening to my ass get fat.

Finally got to hear the new Audioslave CD. I liked it lots.

Reviews for Gangs of New York and Catch Me If You Can up at The Trailer Trash. Tell your friends. Tell enemies. Tell strangers.

2002-11-13T14:03:00.000-05:00

Something Fun To Do On The Weekend

From CNN.com, the headline: Teen Burns Self With "Jackass"-Type Stunt

"A 15-year-old Washington state boy suffered serious burns when he set himself on fire trying to re-enact a stunt similar to those from MTV's controversial show "Jackass," though an MTV spokesperson noted the stunt the boy tried had never appeared on the show or in the recent movie based on the show."

"The boy from the Seattle suburb of Bellevue, Washington, soaked his shirt in rubbing alcohol late on Friday and ignited it while his friends stood by with a video camera shooting footage."

I'm sure many people will cite this as another example of violence in the media and the succeptibility of our children to emulate what they see. And I'm sure people far more intelligent than myself will write brilliant editorials to this effect in the New York Times. But personally, the first thought that struck me upon reading the article wasn't "That poor teenager -- those bastards in Hollywood!" but "He soaked his shirt in RUBBING ALCOHOL and LIT HIMSELF ON FIRE?"

I mean -- well, Jesus. That's easily the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Anyone stupid enough to cover themselves in rubbing alcohol and spark up a match shouldn't be worth a news story. If left to their own devices, they'd most likely find some way or another to off themselves -- putting a plastic garbage bag over their heads and jumping headfirst off the roof or something. I mean, I'm sympathetic to the poor kid, but -- come on! I loved the band Pearl Jam when I was sixteen. If Eddie Vedder came up to me at sixteen and said "You know, me and the guys in Pearl Jam think you'd be really cool if you'd douse yourself in gasoline and set yourself alight," I know exactly what I would have done. I'd have started listening to Soundgarden.

I think the "Jackass" guys are somewhat culpable here. In doing horrific stunts and coming out unscathed, they're certainly sending out the message that stunts like this aren't as dangerous as you'd think. But that culpability only goes so far. And the day we as a society blame someone else when an idiot dunks his head in flammable liquid and sets himself on fire, and NOT the idiot himself, then I think we've lost touch with reality.

I just feel bad for the parents. If there's a clearer sign your genetic material isn't up to scratch, I'd like to hear it.

2002-11-11T09:42:00.000-05:00

The Trailer Trash Update

Three new reviews up at The Trailer Trash -- 8 Mile, Half Past Dead and National Security.

2002-11-08T23:20:00.000-05:00

Hmm. Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden and Rage Against The Machine all have albums out? Am I in high school again?

Oh no! Acne!

Watching the members of two defunct bands you used to listen to form their own actual bloated supergroup has to be one of the clearest signs out there that you're getting older, and not holding statis while everyone around you ages, like we tend to assume. I managed to hunt down the latest Audioslave single today. It's pretty good -- I like it. The video's decent too. It's got to suck for the Rage guys, though. Everything they do is analyzed under such intense scrutiny because of their political beliefs. Like putting pyrotechnics in the video -- couldn't that money have been used to help purchase the legal defense for convicted political prisoners? Stuff like that. Short of releasing every album through home-made CD burning and selling it in the street with copies of the homeless paper, everything they do could be construed as selling out. Getting a nice hotel on the tour? Sell out. Using your wealth to go out for a nice meal in a trendy restaurant. Sell out. Poor guys. You don't see bands like the Backstreet Boys getting that kind of flak. They could wipe their asses with fifties and their fans wouldn't care.

Though Tom Morello has repeatedly stated that Audioslave "isn't just some one-time vanity studio project," for some reason I can't see this group lasting more than a year or producing any more albums. I don't know why that is, but I just get that vibe off them, however long-term their intentions might be. Does anyone else get this? I just look at them and think, "This is over before it starts." Maybe I've just been burned too many times. Though in many cases, it was a blessing. Another helping of Coverdale/Page, anyone? No? Well, more for me! Mmmmm. The great taste of Led Zeppelin and Whi... [sigh] and Whitesnake.

As an aside, it's not like Billy Corgan's up to much. Why didn't they ask him along? He could have carried their amps or something. He'd be like a bald, PVC-wearing Wilson, dispensing folksy heartland wisdom when the members of Audioslave get in a moral bind.

What does everyone else think of the new Audioslave? The great taste of peanut butter and chocolate? Or the bitter taste of dry peanuts and baker's chocolate? Write me with your thoughts. Personally, and despite myself, I find myself drawn into the idea of two of my once-favourite bands teaming up for the applaudable aim of hard rocking.

Check out their new pyrotechnic-heavy video at:

2002-11-08T23:09:00.000-05:00

If Only There Were a Way...

Man, I sure would love to play online casino blackjack for big cash prizes that I could use to buy hand-sized surveillance cameras, but I don't have the time to go searching all over the net for either of these things. If only the internet could think of some way to keep me informed of these products and services constantly, without my having to go look for them.

2002-11-08T23:07:00.000-05:00

Human Cartoons On The Fourteenth Floor

While heading down to the lobby of my office building in the elevator, I watched a woman suddenly panic when the light on the "G" button went off. The lowest floor our elevator goes to is the fourteenth. Once the elevator hits the tenth floor, its sensors remind it that there will be no more stops, the "G" light goes off,
and a further five seconds pass while the elevator slows to a gentle stop on the ground floor.

The woman I shared the elevator with, however, saw the light go off and immediately assumed we were in freefall. No floor light! Not stopping! No! She jabbed at the "G" button -- but, since it was already three seconds from BEING at the ground level, the light didn't go on.

The woman got more frantic, jabbing at the "G" button again and again. It struck me as one of the funniest displays of cartoon logic I'd ever seen from a three-dimensional person. It reminded me of the scene where Bugs Bunny, trapped in the cockpit of an airplane hurtling towards the Earth, stops the plane just feet from the ground by putting on the brakes.

It sounds kind of silly -- but no less silly, I'd think, than what this woman was doing. "Oh no!" you could see her thought processes. "The cable's snapped! We're in freefall! Quickly -- PRESS THE GROUND BUTTON!"

Seconds later, the elevator slowly eased its way to the ground floor. As the doors opened, the woman gave me a cocky look, as if to say "It's a good thing I was here." And thank God she was. I'd have never thought to press the button.

2002-11-08T23:02:00.000-05:00

Personal Visions of Hell (And Other Fun-Filled Conversation Starters...)

It occured to me in the shower today that most of my hatreds seem to be pop-culture based (I offer no explanations for why this would have occured to me in the shower). So, while someone's vision of Hell from three hundred years ago might have been an eternity of rat bites, or an eternity of being flayed alive or something, my vision of Hell involves an eternity of watching David Lynch movies while Geddy Lee sings in my ear. No less frightening or painful, certainly. Still, I should really get a few non entertainment-based visions of Hell.

2002-11-06T10:16:00.000-05:00

I Crack Jokes And Turn Others To Sluts

I'm Krusty the Clown, apparently. Note that I have a knack for inslutting others. Better watch your step, or I'll turn YOU into a slut too! I can do it! My powers are evil and mysterious.

Personally, if it came right down to it, I'd identify most with whichever Simpsons character hates facile online quizzes. I only include this one because the spelling errors are numerous enough to be amusing in their own right. But truthfully, I hate these things. My disdain for them would be lessened if they'd take the time to make their methods a little more complex. If you're at a site that purports to be able to find out if you're a fish or a flower, and it asks you: "I love a) swimming in water; b) living in a garden," I think you can kind of pick up on the Mensa-like scoring system being used here. The irony of these stupid quizzes (which I've seen too many of) is that if you don't already know what results you're going to get just from the questions, then let me save you the time.

Processing...

Processing...

Processing...

You're an idiot.

2002-11-05T20:50:00.000-05:00

Crazy Ways In Far Off Lands

Be sure to check out Mike's ongoing trials and tribulations in the country that God has forsaken, Prague. Plenty of XXX action, I promise you. Mike is both sexually curious and insatiable.

2002-11-05T20:35:00.000-05:00

Hubba (Hubba) Bubba

Special thanks to Limmert for his kind (and exceptionally astute) words hyping my website. Not only did he nail the point of the site in fewer words than I've managed to, he's also doing his best to raise my hits. A raised beer in the air for Bubba Fett. May he encase Han Solo in carbonite for years to come.

2002-11-05T18:27:00.000-05:00

Waiting For a Change

I am smoking quickly, impatiently; watching the streetlight as if my stare alone will convince it to change ahead of schedule, piling up cars and surprised motorists into heaps on either side of me as I scoot across to the butcher. It is only 5:00 and hardly late, but the sun is setting early, the wind is cold and biting, I am nursing a cold that makes my body ache, and I can think of nothing I’d rather do than get home as quickly as possible.

My only errand after work today is to go to the market for meat and bread, since it was closed the day before. That done, I can go home. I am a block away from the market now, smoking a cigarette that certainly isn’t helping with my cold, watching a light that has decided to never change.

I pitch the cigarette, and a man my age suddenly breaks from his position beside me, stoops down and grabs the butt. He gives me a smile as he pops the filter in his mouth, happy as a clam.

“I ain’t had no fuckin’ smoke all day, man, you know what I’m sayin’?” he says conversationally, enjoying the stubby cigarette as if every tobacco fibre were an individually wrapped gift.

I am about to respond like I always do to complete strangers who attempt to engage me in casual conversation, which is to respond with something rote and bland enough that they’ll rethink whether it’s worth the bother. In this case, I am about to go with “I know what you mean,” when it occurs to me that I don’t.

I’ve been desperate enough for a cigarette sometimes to go rooting through my own ashtrays at home, looking for a sufficiently unsmoked butt. This in itself has drawn strange looks from anybody I happen to do it in front of, as if I was looking through a bowl of fruit for something weighty to put up my own ass. I can understand their horror; smoking is a filthy habit to begin with, and I can’t imagine it improves upon an already grimy image to go rooting through my ashtrays like a whiskery vagrant. As low as I’ve stooped, though, I’ve never actually made a dash for a cigarette that was smoked by someone else, as that would mean putting something in my mouth that's had at least a token acquaintance with one of a total stranger's orifices, and maybe more.

Instead, I respond with “I hear that,” which seems safe, since I’ve been in a position to certainly feel like grabbing butts off the ground during a feverish nicotine fit, anyway, even if I didn’t actually give in to the impulse.

He smiles and nods. This is as sure a sign as any that I should give him a cigarette, as most intentionally pathetic displays are. If ever I were to feel indulgent, it would be now, as I’ve just bought a pack ten minutes ago, and have entire rows of the lovely little ladies staring up at me. But I’m also aware that this pack will soon be gone, those lovely ladies rapidly disappearing, and I don’t know how I’m going to afford another pack. I could very well be scooping up boot-printed, crumpled butts myself this time tomorrow. I hold off.

I think about telling him that I’ve got a cold, and he might catch it by smoking the cigarette. But then it strikes me that anyone willing to pick something off the street and put it in their mouth, no questions asked, isn’t terribly likely to give my warning a second thought.

“Motherfuckers always be givin’ me looks like I’m crazy, pickin’ smokes off the ground,” he says, reading my mind. I roll my eyes, as if to say, “Pshh. Judgmental pricks. Here, pass that butt over.”

“Course,” he adds, “I got AIDS, so like I’m worried about catchin’ somethin’, you know?” He chuckles.

I have to admit it: it’s a pretty good point. If you’ve got a terminal disease at age twenty-five, I couldn’t think of a more sensible philosophy than to throw caution to the wind. Still, I can’t help but wonder if having AIDS and being homeless before thirty might indicate you’ve had a pretty cavalier attitude all along that might have contributed a little to your current state of affairs.

The light changes. I give him a smoke after all. He takes the lovely little lady for the prize that we are both in a position to know it is.

2002-11-05T12:21:00.000-05:00

My Whereabouts...

Hmm. No posts in a while. I visited with my parents on the weekend, and since I've been back, I managed to get a wicked headcold. Everything's kind of sore and achy, and I'm getting a "hot one minute, freezing the next" sensation that you'd normally associate with running around a skating rink with naked cheerleaders.

Anyway. New reviews up at The Trailer Trash, if anyone's interested.

2002-10-31T18:36:00.000-05:00

Your Government Dollars At Work

For those who don't know, I'm a proposal writer for a living. This means that, on behalf of my company, I answer requests for proposals from all manner of companies.

Let me explain this: If a company wants product x, say, rather than just go out and buy it, they'll put the request on the the market, define exactly what they need, and let the companies come to THEM with proposals for fulfilling their requirement. Then they can sit at their leisure and pick through the documents for the best one. I write proposal responses for my company, trying to get companies to choose us to provide the services they've requested.

So I'm responding to a government request today for a database developer in Ottawa. Government documents are just fucking torture, by the way, for the anal way they make you answer everything. They set in specifications for the fonts and margins you have to use, for God's sake. And everything's graded. If they want, say, experience with tugging at your little sizzler, 2 years experience gets 5 points, 4 years gets 10, and 8 and over gets 15, for example.

Anyway, as I'm going through the latest request for proposal, I notice this hilarious requirement:

Experience within a Microsoft 2000 sever platform environment.
2 to 4 yrs experience: 4 points
4 to 6 yrs experience: 8 points
6 yrs and over experience: 16 points

Now... come fucking on. The goal is to get the maximum number of points, of course, so the candidate I'm keying in the responses for has gone for the max. So he's basically said, for every job he's ever had, that he has experience with Microsoft 2000.

So what's sillier: the government asking for 6 years and over of experience in Microsoft 2000? Or a programmer confidently responding that he's been using it as far back as 1994?

2002-10-31T11:26:00.000-05:00

The No-Shirt Dilemma: The Saga Continues...

or...

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Problem

Me: [wearing grey sweater and black dress pants, feeling pretty proud of myself]

Co-worker: "Hey, not shirt and tieing it today, Jay?"

Me: [frozen, thinking] "Uh... well... am I the only guy here who doesn't celebrate Halloween?"

Co-worker: [dubious] "That's a costume?"

Me: "Sure."

Co-worker: "What are you supposed to be?"

Me: [thinking frantically] "Um. The...ghost...of... Mister Rogers?"

Co-worker: "Oh."

[pause]

Co-worker: "Good costume."

2002-10-30T13:09:00.000-05:00

Highnessnessnessness

Thanks to Chelsea for her kind words on her blog. I was wondering why my ears were burning. I thought it was because I'd put my head up close to the toaster so I could hear when the bread was done. But it turns out it was the kind words all along!

2002-10-30T09:52:00.000-05:00

$14.99 Shirt-and-Tie Combo

Money got exceptionally tight this past weekend. An out-of-the-blue call from Rogers Cable – wondering philosophically if I ever, in fact, intended on paying them money, followed by the hope that I could find a few good books by Thursday, as they would be cutting off my services then -- left me racing to make a sudden payment, reducing my chequing account to a handful of dollars.

I withdrew the meagre funds I’d been left with and bought what necessities I needed to continue living until I got paid again the following Friday. White bread and peanut butter, for instance, would supply lunches for the week. Chicken legs and rice made for a cost-effective five day's worth of suppers. I then scrounged up a final two dollars and change with which to get some laundry done. With the two non-negotiable expenses taken care of – eating and not stinking – I was ready to face the week.

An unexpected snag presented itself on Sunday evening, when I gathered up a basketful of dirty shirts and pants for a trip to the laundromat. Only then did I realize I’d actually used up the last of my Tide the week before. With all of two dollars and seventy-five cents in coins as the sum total of my available “mad money”, there was no way that I could think of to buy a new $8 container of detergent. I supposed I could go to the laundromat and purchase one of those individually packed mini-Tide packs, which are only a couple of bucks. But to do that, I’d have to spend the money I needed to actually make the washing machine start after I’d applied the crystals. I had two choices: washing a load of laundry with no soap, or letting a load of laundry, soap included, sit unwashed in a tumbler. Neither sounded very sensible. It was time for Plan C.

Finding clean pants wasn’t a huge obstacle, as I had a few suits hanging in my closet. It was the shirt department that had me panicking. My existing work shirts were pretty dirty, smelling of hard work and stress as they did from a week’s worth of wear. Some had stains from a hasty lunch.

On Monday morning I grabbed the least offensive looking of the shirts, ironed the shit out of it, and was pleased enough with the results I saw in the mirror to brave showing up to work. On Tuesday I took the second-least offensive shirt, ironed the shit out of this also, and managed to skate through another day laundryless.

By this morning I had run out of unoffensive shirts. It was crunch time. I waded deep into the recesses of my closet, looking for a shirt I might have bought, not liked, and tossed in the back. The deeper in I waded, the further back in time I went – at one point I stumbled on an old Metallica/Guns N’ Roses 1991 World Tour t-shirt I didn’t even know I still had.

Finally, with time running out, I spotted a hidden cache of dress shirts deep in the back. I pulled out one and held it up in front of me: a shiny dark purple shirt that, even in the dim half-light of my closet, glowed with an odd luminescence. It was immediately clear to me why I’d not liked the shirt to begin with, and had banished it to the dark reaches of my closet space. What wasn’t clear was why I hadn’t just thrown it out in the first place. I would never, ever wear this shirt, having as it did the power to make your eyes water when you looked directly at it. While it might be useful for not getting called on at meetings, it would prove ineffective at convincing anybody I wasn’t a gay circus clown. I would sooner wear a barrel. The search continued.

Just about ready to give up, I stumbled on another treasure I’d forgotten about: a cheap-looking shirt-and-tie set I’d gotten for Christmas the previous year. My immediate family of uncles and aunts does a yearly name swap at the holidays, so that everyone has to buy a gift for only one other person. It’s a cost effective way to do it, and means you’ll get and receive one $20 gift, rather than 40 fifty cent ones. The year past, I’d gotten a flat grey shirt and tie combo from an uncle, which frightened me considerably. I knew of no well-made dress shirts that cost only $20, and certainly none that came with a tie included. I thanked him for the gift, put it aside, and – when I eventually made it back to my apartment after the holidays – skipped it like a stone into my closet, confident I’d never be that desperate for clothes.

I was now that desperate for clothes. I tore open the package and examined it with an optimistic eye. I noted that the price tag, still affixed to the bottom of the package, read only $14.99. I wondered which composed the majority of the price: the shirt, or the tie? Either way, the tie had to go. Not only was it the exact same colour as the shirt, but it was also quite possibly the same material.

The shirt though – it was kind of cheap-looking. But not THAT cheap-looking, at least not when separated from the tie. It also had some pretty hard-looking grooves in it, from having spent almost a year folded and in its package at the bottom of my closet.

I ironed the shit out of it. When I finished, I ironed the shit out of it again. I examined myself in the mirror. It would work. I had Wednesday covered.

Thursday and Friday loom menacingly on the horizon.

2002-10-27T22:10:00.000-05:00

The Trailer Trash Launches...

Please head over to my new site, The Trailer Trash, where I'll be riffing on the trailers to major motion pictures, two a or three a week, every Monday. Please link it if you can, and let anybody know you think'd be interested.

2002-10-25T17:52:00.000-04:00

Bubba Fett: Psychic!?!

You know, it's rare that I agree with Limmert on anything. But with his latest post, it's like he got a look at my private week-end blueprints. That, coupled with the fact that he apparently buys the same brand of pants that I buy, lends credence to the arguments people are always putting forward that they always confuse the two of us.

To help people remember for the future: I'm the HANDSOME one.

Woopwoopwoopwoop! Nyuk nyuk nyuk!

As a P.S. to anyone who reads this blog -- honestly, anyone? Show of hands. Anyone? that's what I thought -- I'll be posting less in the coming week, as I intend to devote time to a new webpage idea I'm hacking around with. Those in need of a "Pinkerton" fix can still head over to Pinkerton's Website For the Intellectually Obscene for a robust collection of past essays and articles. These articles and essays are bold, friend. You can taste the smoked hickory.

2002-10-23T21:28:00.000-04:00

Sympathy For The Devil

~or~

sucks.

"Hello, Rogers Cable, how may I help you?"

"Hi, thanks. I was just looking through my bill. You've been charging me $60 a month?"

[click clack clack] "That's correct, sir."

"For the internet, right?"

[click clack clack] "That's correct, sir."

"JUST the internet connection?"

[pause]

[click clack clack] "Yes, sir."

"Well -- well, that's insane. Sixty dollars a month? For the internet? I signed a deal for forty dollars."

"Yes, sir. However, because you have decided not to purchase cable television, we have to charge you twenty dollars for the connection fee in addition to your internet services."

[pause]

"You people are crazy like foxes, aren't you?"

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"Alright. Let's say I wanted cable. How much would that cost?"

"Sixty-five dollars a month. That's for basic cable only, sir."

"Right. So sixty-five dollars for internet and cable. Or forty dollars for just cable, plus twenty dollars for a 'cable charge', plus tax?"

[click clack clack] "That's correct, sir."

[pause]

"You people are such whores, you know that?"

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"Look. Honestly now. Sixty dollars for the internet is insane. What deals do you have? Is there a Lite internet or something I could get or something?"

[click clack clack] "We DO have a Lite Cable connection, sir. It's twenty dollars less a month. However, it IS significantly slower."

"How much slower?"

"Our premium cable service, sir, is 2 megabytes. Our lite service is 125 kilobytes."

"2 megabytes? What does that mean? A second?"

"Yes, sir."

"I've been with you people for a year now. The day I get two megabytes a second is the day I'll gladly pay you $60 a month."

"That's optimum, sir."

"Okay. What's average?"

"About 750 kilobytes a second, sir."

"And the Lite?"

"About 250 kilobytes a second, sir."

[pause]

"Can I get the Lite version, please? NOW?"

[click clack clack] "Certainly, sir. But you'll have to speak to a different department."

"Fine. When are they open?"

"Next Monday."

"I see. We can't do this right now."

"I'm sorry, sir. You need to go through them."

"And they're only open one day a week?"

"Yes, sir."

[pause]

"GOD, you people are good."

"Thank you, sir."

"Fine. Whatever. Don't think this is forgotten. I WILL phone next Monday."

"Certainly, sir. I should mention that there is a fifty dollar downgrading fee attached to subscribing to Rogers Lite." (I'm NOT kidding here.)

"A fifty dollar fee?"

"Yes, sir."

"For DOWNGRADING my service?"

"Yes, sir."

[pause]

"I -- I -- this is amazing. You've actually perfected fucking customers over to a complete science."

[click clack clack] "Thank you, sir. Please be sure to visit www.rogers.ca to mention this service call, and your satisfaction with it."

[dial tone]

2002-10-22T15:58:00.000-04:00

My Day (littlefishinabigpond)

2002-10-21T17:12:00.000-04:00

Rock On

Today, a review of the trailer for Extreme Ops in lieu of a blogpost. Why? I don't know. This trailer just angered me. I had no choice but to focus my full attention on it.

Extreme Ops is a trailer that, not three seconds in, all but yells "Straight to video." Our generation being as steeped in irony as it is, you'd almost expect a movie with a name like Extreme Ops to be a satire of that genre of film.

And yet no -- Extreme Ops wants you to take it seriously. There are operations (called "ops", I suppose, because the parties involved do enough of them to merit the shorthand). These ops are extreme. Very extreme. Intensely extreme, even. These ops are a danger to themselves and others.

We are first introduced to the Extreme Ops team (our heroes, unfortunately) as they are airlifted to a remote mountain peak in the middle of a thunderstorm. "A remote peak," intones our sober Narrator. Lightning crackles. Tense banshee-wail music builds. "An empty hotel," he continues, tension mounting. Rain drips from shadowy walls. Fireballs plume up out of nowhere.

I don't know about you, but when I'm greeted with this kind of creepy set-up, I assume the film is a horror movie. All the pieces are there: the cast of stupid young people; the remote location cut off from the help of others; the lightning and suspense.

So it is somewhat jarring when, ten seconds later, this set-up is abandoned entirely. Techno music thumps in, everything gets all extreme, and we're introduced to "six of the most insane people in extreme sports" flying out of planes on mountain bikes, snowboarding behind trains, and, I don't know, lugeing down an icy precipice with their heads or something.

I know these kinds of people. The trailer can go right ahead and dub them "six of the most insane people in extreme sports." It's only trying to distract you from the fact that, in real life, people like this are called "idiots." To be charitable, I could meet the trailer halfway with "six of the most insane people in extreme idiocy."

I'm not saying I have anything against adrenalin-junkies "livin' on the edge." Get your kicks however you want, I'm not stopping you. I'm simply saying that if your idea of extreme sporting is snowboarding behind a train, you're a moron. There isn't snow behind a train. There are train tracks behind a train. A snowboard is capable of handling many surfaces, from snow to water to other types of snow. But asking it to "glide" along steel rails, gravel, wooden beams and assorted detritus at two hundred miles an hour is, I'm sorry to say, a little beyond its capabilities.

Nonetheless, there's our beloved Extreme Ops team, doing just that. What better way to endear these characters to our hearts than by showing them doing repulsively stupid things? Fifteen seconds into the trailer, I was already waiting for some kind of mishap that would kill one of them. I don't doubt that they'd bleed Mountain Dew instead of plasma, their last words a throaty "Rock on" while they made the Devil Sign with their fingers. Why? Again, because they're morons. Why die with dignity when it would fly so much in the face of everything they'd done while alive?

Following the techno-pumped montage of extreme sporting, our heroes (it makes me sad to keep defining them as that) hop into a jacusi. This is, I imagine, to reassure the sorts of people who'd go to this kind of movie that, yes, there will be extreme humping. Mention is made of nudeness. In theaters everywhere, thirteen year old boys position their popcorn boxes very strategically.

The rest of the trailer does not deserve frame-by-frame analysis, as it involves our Extreme Ops team fighting terrorists. With guns? Hand-to-hand combat? Cunning? Ha ha, no. With extreme sporting. Feel free to wince. I did. The terrorists (Serbian, I think, which seems in line with Hollywood's intent to make all terrorists Serbian) shoot Russian automatic weapons and chase the plucky youngsters with rocket launcher-equipped helicopters, but to no avail: their extreme sports stop the terrorists cold every time!

The trailer finishes off with the tragic tagline "Survival is an Attitude." If you can make any sort of sense out of that, please email me with a detailed hypothesis. Who writes taglines like this? Is it even done by people, or is there just some software application that randomly pairs up nonsensical buzz-words? "Survive To The Max." "In-Your-Face Survival Overdrive." "Off-The-Hook Surviving In Phat Pants, Yo."

Watching this tired premise play itself out, I couldn't begin to imagine a target market a trailer like this would appeal to. A few possibilities:

* Very drunk men
* Masochists
* Dogs
* Blind, deaf, mute people

I won't give this trailer the minimum rating, because it seems to get across what it needs to very well: explosions, extreme sporting, and the possibility of nudeness are all touched on. Plus, this film stars Rufus Sewell -- as the star of Dark City, he deserves better than this, and pity guides my hand a little here. Still, I'm afraid "Survival is an Attitude" is going to cost them. I give this trailer two stars out of five.

2002-10-19T18:53:00.000-04:00

Something We can All Agree On...

While buying a coffee at Timothy's today, I overheard the cashier chatting to another employee about a CD she planned on lending him.

"Oh, which one?" asked a customer in line.

"Madonna's Immaculate Collection."

"Oooh, good choice," he gushed.

"Yeah," she said, nodding at her own sagacity. "Everyone likes Madonna."

I didn't feel the need to refute her on this. But I do privately question her conclusions. I can't help but think it's somewhat presumptuous to assume that everyone -- tax attorneys, Korean war veterans, Inuit whale butchers -- are undivided on their love of "Papa Don't Preach".

World peace? I think all but the most dedicated republicans could agree on that. A cure for cancer? I think that's a pretty solid "yes". You might get a few stragglers at first who misheard the question, and don't want a cure for dancers, as it doesn't even make sense. Once you explained it to them, though, I think they'd all agree.

But Madonna? I don't MIND Madonna. But it's a pretty bold stance to take, really, on Madonna's popularity. Not as controversial as, say, "Everyone likes genital lice," or "Everyone thinks the Holocaust was a good idea." But I can think of many, many things we the human race could agree on besides putting on Madonna's latest album. "Everybody likes not getting kicked in the face" would be a safe bet, I think, if cornered to make a pronouncement of this kind. "Everybody thinks Phil Collins should go away" is also playing it safe.

Then again, I've never heard Immaculate Collection, so it's possible I'm in the dark here. Maybe the accumulative power of all of Madonna's pop hits is more persuasively catchy than I'm giving it credit for. Honestly, though, I'm pretty sure I'd rather listen to Zeppelin.

"Ah," you might retort. "So you're saying that everybody would rather listen to Led Zeppelin? Isn't that just as presumptuous?"

"No," I'd respond. "Let me clarify this. I'D rather listen to Zeppelin. Everyone else can go fuck themselves."

Say. I think that's the universal maxim I was looking for, actually. Now THERE'S something we can all agree on.

"Everybody can go fuck themselves." Words to live by. Words to go fuck yourself by.

2002-10-17T20:55:00.000-04:00

Stuck In The Middle With (All 5,000 Of) You

Fire drill in my 50-storey building at 11:00 today.

I'd seen the postings on the wall for weeks but not really registered it -- otherwise I would have made sure to have already been out of the building when the alarm started going off.

What a waste of time. I can empathize with the building administrators, who are obligated to do this kind of thing every so often to avoid lawsuits; test the sirens, ensure the right doors lock and unlock when they're supposed to. But really, couldn't they just hire a few guys to go through the paces and leave everyone else out of it? There's no benefit to a fire drill for the people working in it: 1.) You go to the stairs. 2.) You walk down the stairs. When you reach the bottom, 3.) you walk outside. It's not terribly complicated. Why we need to "drill" this every six months like we’re being asked to navigate through some Elizabethan hedge maze is beyond me.

The siren wails at full volume as everyone on my floor grabs their coats and heads for the stairs. I enter into the vast line of people descending the emergency staircase and, single file, we trudge downwards.

For an entire floor. Then, the line stops dead. Vague mumblings and laughter. This stretches to two minutes.

To ten minutes.

To fifteen minutes.

Eventually someone pipes up, "Wouldn't we all be dead by now?"

"Yeah," I respond. "The How Fast Can We Kill Everybody drill was a huge success!"

Some laughter, more looking at watches. I cock my head upwards at the staircase spiraling up thirty floors -- hundreds and hundreds of hands on the railings. I look downwards at hundreds and hundreds of hands on the railings. The temperature begins to rise from all the body heat. It's a large tumult of conversations, laughter, anger, yelling, and stomping.

I begin, despite myself, to wonder about the strength of the staircase -- visualize without wanting to me in trapped like a sardine, hearing the enormous sound like a banshee wail of heavy steel bending and snapping, the moorings giving way under the weight, the sudden lurch as the ground gave way. I see the railing I would grab onto. How long would that hold? How long could I hang on with bodies and cement chunks and steel flying past me?

I should mention that I'm mildly agoraphobic. It's also called demophobia, enochlophobia and ochlophobia (I wonder if there's a fear of redundant naming?). Whatever you call it, it means I hate crowds.

Not ALL crowds. I can go to a ballgame or a concert or a fair or even a crowded bar and not even notice it. It's hard to explain what specifically sets it off -- all I can give in the way of explanation is that every one of the venues I just named involve tickets, head-counting, seats if you need them, and at least some semblance of order. There might be 30,000 heads at a Stones concert; but there are also 30,000 tickets and 30,000 seats, so as long as I've got some assurance that someone thought about this before I did, I don't care.

What sets me off is a tightly-packed crowd, an agitated crowd -- chaotic, riled – in an unexpected or uncontrolled situation. Shopping at Christmas fills me with dread for this reason. Ditto walking down Yonge Street at certain times of the day, when it's too busy to accommodate the sheer numbers, and so everybody simultaneously decides THEY deserve preferential treatment.

I suspect at the root of this fear is an intense cynicism towards my fellow man's nobility. I tend to see people in situations like this -- in an overcrowded street; packed in a mall running after rapidly depleting items; getting antsy in a crowded, packed-to-capacity-and-still-filling staircase -- as dumb, unthinking, self-centred little trolls. I know people aren't like this - I'm merely referring to the well-known "mob mentality" phenomenon that takes hold of a crowd given any sort of stress or adversity, however small.

As individuals, I don't doubt there are some sterling examples of patience and virtue. As a collective, though, we are shameful. Kids run around screaming; people elbow each other out of the way; toss garbage unthinkingly in the paths of others; pick fights with other people; scream; yell; say horrible things; shriek with laughter; act like animals. Add some chaos to that mix, like putting too many people in an enclosed space.... well, all I see when I look around is a group of savages. And I panic. I want out.

This lack of trust also extends to my irrational panic attack about the staircase crumbling under the weight. Whenever I'm in a situation like this where I even have the inkling of an idea that this hasn't been prepared for in advance, I suspect the worst. Was this staircase built with the thought in mind that every one of the building's tenants would stand on it all at once, all the way up fifty floors, for ten minutes? Twenty? Half an hour?

Not helping me calm down at all is the air raid siren still whooping, bouncing off the closed-in staircase, amplifying itself to irritatingly loud decibel levels. I'm not freaking out yet. I'm holding it together. But I'm definitely NOT having a good time. Occasional loud thumps five stories up, most likely someone dropping a briefcase, make me jump half a foot. I'm scrunched in tight as a sardine, and I note that, of course, other people are still trying to crowd into the already full stairwell.

Finally, after what seems like twenty minutes of not moving, I do start to freak out. No gnashing of teeth, or froth at the mouth, or whatever. I just wanted to get the fuck out of there. I slowly work my way backwards to the door out to the 18th floor, and wait for the attack to pass. I head for the nearest room and sit down for a minute. As it turns out, it’s a boardroom.

As I’m sitting there, someone walks by, looks in, and says “We’ll meet back here in fifteen minutes, finish off the meeting.” His head disappears. Re-appears a second later. “Who are you?” he asks.

“I just wanted a breather,” I say.

“Oh,” he says.

“Can I still come to the meeting?”

2002-10-16T23:39:00.000-04:00

A Tale of Two Biceps

Walking into my apartment later at night, I'm met by two really drunk guys in the elevator. I'm reading, so I don't much think of them beyond the fact that they seem pretty potted and surly. The one guy, in a grungy old ball cap and cheap clothes, is chewing out his skinnier drug-addict counterpart.

"I'm tellin' you, man," he slurs, leaning an arm against the wall for balance. "Next time you got trouble, you let me know. I'll straighten 'em out for you. Tha's what I'm here for, man. I live for that kind of thing. I am THERE for you with that, man. Seriously. TELL me."

His frankly non-impressive size doesn't seem to in any way back up his "I kick ass" claim, but I've by now gotten so used to late-night Toronto drunk-talk that I don't even pay attention. Nose deep in a book, I block them out and wait for the elevator. Whatever their deal is, I couldn't care less about it.

The elevator dings. I let them step in first, following them in. Press the button for my floor. go back to the book. Out of the corner of my attention, I hear "Feel my arm, dude," but don't register it. Whatever shenanigans they're up to, they're more than welcome to engage in them. I'm off in a few floors anyway.

Suddenly a bicep is thrust under my nose. I look up, confused, and backpeddle the memory a little. I vaguely recall a request for someone to feel someone else's bicep. Ah. Apparently that was all me. I'M supposed to feel this drunk, machismo-and-Pabst-fueled idiot's bicep.

I feel the bicep obligingly. It feels like a bicep. It's not large, or in any way worthy, in my opinion, of showing off to complete strangers. Still, it IS a bicep. Fits right on his arm and everything.

"Very nice," I say with a nod. Taking this for the admittal of his Herculean powers that it most assuredly was, he commences to flex his meager business all over the elevator. "You see, man?! you SEE?" he says, as if my bicep-squeeze was the final piece of evidence to tip the scales. "I can look out for you, man. I will fuck... shit... UP!" Again, he flexes all over the place. I'm not exactly SCARED. He's not that big. However, I am apprehensive, since he IS, big or not, clearly all about fighting.

The skinny drug addict friend, noticing my confused stare, pokes HIS bicep in my face.

"Here, here! Feel MINE now!" he says, all nervous laughter. He's hoping to diffuse what has apparently now becoming a situation, God bless him. The elevator's on the third floor and climbing.

"Well, that one's nice too," I say, feeling like their mother. ("You're BOTH my little heroes!") I am bewildered and just want to get back to my book. Mainly I'm unclear what it is they want from me. A fight? Friendship? More bicep-touching? Trophies for "Best Fighting-Type Drunk-N'-Stuff Guys"? I'm baffled. They REALLY didn't have the enormous size to back up what they're bullshitting here.

"Brother -- I want you to do me a favour," says the "big" one. He's still, against all reason, flexing all over the place.

"You got it," I say, trying not to smile.

"I want you to spell 'okay' backwards."

Sixth floor and climbing.

"Alright," I say, thinking. "Y... A... K... O. There."

"THAT'S RIGHT!" he says, punching the side of the elevator. "K.O.! K.O., baby! I am a fucking DEATH warrant, brother! I am a --"

It is precisely now that he figures out I haven't actually spelled K.O., and have thus, accidentally, made him look like a complete and total idiot. His eyes cloud. Close into slits. Whoops.

"You some kind of smart guy?" he says. Drug addict looks at the floor.

"I guess," I say. "That's how it's spelled and everything."

Ninth floor. My floor. The elevator stops with a jolt and the doors open.

"I think it's time for you to go now," he says, pointing ominously at the door. "I'm tired of you." It's obvious he's trying to salvage a little tough-guy dignity in front of his friend, making it out like he's ORDERING me off the elevator. It's kind of sad, really. It was the floor I'd WANTED to get off on. I'd pushed the button for it. But no. We had to play it like I was slinking out of the elevator early to avoid the big bad man and his big bad not-terribly-impressive biceps.

"Sure," I say, exiting.

He nods. All is right with the world.

"I'm sure you two want to be alone with your biceps, anyway," I can't resist adding, and am pleased to see him lunge at the door just as it closes.

Morons. I am many things when I'm drunk, this I admit. But if I ever start going up to people asking them to feel my arms, I want you to hit me in the head as hard as you can. Promise me this. Promise me I will never be on my drunkest day as punishingly stupid as that guy.

2002-10-12T15:10:00.000-04:00

Goddamnit! Who Put Luncheon Meat In My Inbox?

spam n.

Unsolicited e-mail, often of a commercial nature, sent indiscriminately to multiple mailing lists, individuals, or newsgroups; junk e-mail.

Hypothetically, the "junk mail" feature of a Hotmail account is useful for getting rid of spam. Realistically though, I still have to go through the junk mail folder daily, looking for the odd email from a real person that gets lumped in there by accident. It's only ever happened a few times, admittedly; but every time that email has been at least somewhat important. Because of this, I now have to check two inboxes every time I log into Hotmail: my "junk mail" folder, which will contain up to thirty pieces of spam mail at any given time; and my "inbox", which contains over forty pieces of spam mail that managed to make it past the filter.

Admittedly, I've had my Hotmail account for something like eight years now, so it's had a chance to get lodged in the databases of every single spammer on the planet. I've used the account countless times while gaining access to download shareware and other tools; I've used it to set up online accounts for various new online thingies that've come up over the years, your ICQs and Napsters and so on; I've even used it to gain access to some fairly questionable websites; and I've done this for years. So at this point, my spam-to-email ratio is something like 80 to 1 and climbing. And maybe it is finally time to retire the poor account and get a new one. But for one, I've already given everybody I've ever known for eight years this email, so it'd be an enormous hassle switching now. And secondly, I managed to procure james_pinkerton@hotmail.com. Not james_pinkerton445, not jpinkerton_34, but James underscore goddamn Pinkerton, baby. Given the sheer number of people who use Hotmail, many of whom I don't doubt share my name, I consider this a bit of a coup. To abandon the email now would be like giving away a prime plot of land. Countless James Pinkertons out there have to make do with unweildy, cumbersome email addresses with more numbers and ampersands than proper letters -- letting my email address rot away unused would, in some way, betray them. I can't give up the good fight. And so I must shovel out boatloads of spam from the damn thing on a twice-daily basis.

I'm sure you've noticed this yourself, but the spammers are getting wilier. It used to be you'd get a few emails with subject headers like "MAKE THEM GO WILD WITH YOU'RE HUG 12 INCH MEMBER!!!" or "Work Form Home And Be A Milionare!" It was easy to spot them, with their unnecessary exclamation and unfortune all-caps spelling.

(As an aside to the mass-emailing pornographers out there: if you're sending a spam-ad to 100,000 people, have the decency to run a quick spell-check, okay? Honestly, is your time so precious? Are there truly so many vile porn-based activities on your itinerary that you can't take the time to spell "XXX Colege Slutes" properly? Just because you're a reprehensible near-felon, that doesn't mean you shouldn't take some measure of pride in your job. Get Hooked on Phonics, greasy porno-guys of America. You won't regret it.)

Nowadays, though, the spammers have gotten collectively crazy like foxes. The subject headers now read "Important: About Your Loan!" or "Hey, haven't seen you in a while." Like the velociraptor smacking its small bullet head systematically along the electrified fence, they've LEARNED. Now they come in camouflage, in the innocence guises of local bank representatives, people you conceivably met at parties, and other people with important news.

It still doesn't work, of course, because we're not actually THAT stupid. If there was seriously a problem with my loan, I'd like to think the multi-billion dollar corporation that governs my account wouldn't let me know through a strange loner named Jack from @freediplomas.org. They'd call me, like the sensible human beings they are. Ditto for everyone else with "important news" -- honestly, if something had really happened to my grandmother, I'm fairly certain my father would simply call me, and not email me disguised as 89909knfishgrrab@sex-addicts.porn.bigtits.com. My father, while gifted in many other areas, is about as capable of sending email as he would be leaping across the province to tell me the news in person.

So I make it a game now -- which spam mail's gonna fool me this month? Or better, have such a surreally interesting subject header that, even though I know full well it's only an ad for teen web cams, I'll still open it? Like "Lose 20 Pounds in Fifteen Seconds!" I'm sorry, but anyone who makes a claim that blatantly stupid has my full attention. (As it turns out, the program in question involves taking a "miracle pill" three times a day with water for a week while eating no food. They mention the "eat no food for a week" thing as an aside, focusing their attention on the miracle pill; but somehow, I sense the not-eating step of this plan might have something to do with the miracle weight loss.)

Or "GET THE BIG BRESTS YOU DESERVE, JAY_PINKERTON!!" Not only has this stranger taken the time to address me by name, but they've also decided I'm entitled to big breasts. Whether or not I want them is beside the point -- what's important is they've determined I'm owed them, and I'm touched by their concern.

The best of all of them, however, is the latest breed -- the ICQ spammer. Earlier today I got an unprompted message from a girl named Debbie who, as luck would have it, was 23 and lived in Toronto. "How are you doing?" asked Debbie. "Good, I hope! ;)"

I decided it best not to answer, instead opening up Debbie's personal information file. Ah. Apparently, Debbie's homepage is "www.sex-sluts.com." She must share the webpage with other sex-sluts she knows, I surmised. Her URL was followed by the information that Debbie was single, and looking for a boyfriend. Well, good for her. It's hard for a young sex-slut in the big city to find that special someone. Though I instinctively knew I wasn't her Mr. Right, I nonetheless wished her the best on her search. Then I blocked her ICQ number and went about my business.

All of this leading to a thought some minutes later: somewhere out there, that gambit plausibly worked. Is there someone out there, even as I write this, talking to "Debbie" on ICQ? Purposefully ignoring her URL, or maybe contriving some wholly fictional excuse in his mind for why she might have chosen "sex-sluts" as her homepage? I don't doubt it. And not even because he's stupid -- he's just THAT lonely.

I don't know -- is this some online form of natural selection at work? Should we allow the e-predators out there to take the hard-earned dollars of the lonely men out there, the high school drop-outs eager for a diploma, the small-chested girls sick of being ignored and eager to shell out cash for cans? Or should we maybe be worried that the spammers out there are getting a little too good? What if they got better? What other ways will they discover to prey on our various insecurities and spiritual vacancies?

Who knows? But with your help, I can find out. Send your credit card number to james_pinkerton@hotmail.com now, and HELP ME GET RID OF SPAM AND GET TIPS FOR BEING IRESTABLE TO THE OPOSITE SEX!!!!!

2002-10-12T14:08:00.000-04:00

My Top Five Female Celebrity Fantasy Make-outs

1) Shirley Manson

First Garbage album era only. I feel the need to clarify that I find her new "Bridgette-Neilson-albino-crewcut" thing not at all sexy and actually kind of disturbing.

2.) Alyson Hannigan

American Pie 2 era (though I fully realize clarifying this leaves me open to attacks that I've seen American Pie 2).

3.) Heather Graham

Austin Powers 2 era, not Boogie Nights era, surprisingly. My rationale here is that, while in Boogie Nights Heather Graham got nasty with the granite-muscled Mark Wahlberg, in the Powers sequel she found the pudgy, snaggle-toothed Mike Myers inexplicably irresistable. I'm just properly guaging my chances here.

4.) Rachel Leigh Cook

All over me like a feral animal era.

5.) Thora Birch / Christina Ricci / Rose McGowan

Three-way tie for my affection from the hottest full-bodied dark-haired starlets in Hollywood. Oh, the times we'd have -- them stripping provocatively down to nothing; me prematurely ejaculating just watching them; the three of them leaving my place in an angry, dissatisfied huff; me capping off the night by watching SportsCentre in my underwear, happy just to have been involved.

2002-10-11T15:35:00.000-04:00

Bubbafett Jones and the Temple of Love

Heh heh heh. Anybody unclear on how to melt a girl's heart would do well to trot over to Limmert's latest blog-post, concerning his first date with the love of his life. Is this guy smooth? Baby, this guy is smooth. This guy is smooth like baby's bottom butter is smooth.

Not that I recommend seeking out and eating baby's bottom butter. That's just begging for an emergency trip to the hospital. Actually, look, now that I think about it, forget the entire metaphor. It's getting progressively more disgusting the more I think about it.

2002-10-11T12:58:00.000-04:00

I Will Master The Sousaphone With My 'Just Watch Me' Attitude

Sometime last year, enough evidence had been brought to my attention to allow me to safely conclude that Fred Durst, Limp Bizkit lead singer and human "fuck"-yelling machine, was an idiot. It wasn't any one piece of news that tipped the scales, so much as an overall tapestry woven from various newsbites that proved, conclusively, that Fred Durst was not an intelligent man by any means.

And so I respectfully salute him -- because, after all the votes have been tabulated and his profound and total idiocy assured, the pudgy red-hatted lump still takes the time to offer up fresh exhibits for consideration. He certainly doesn't have to. Is anyone still in doubt? Is there a single soul out there who could safely say, "I can give Fred Durst a pair of scissors and leave the room for ten minutes without a tragic accident to follow"? Of course not. Yet there he is, topping up the pile of evidence against him on a daily basis, the helpful little mouth-breather.

I read this article today over at MTV.com. I've excerpted the bit I found the most amusing:

"A year ago, Limp Bizkit guitarist Wes Borland left, and after a nationwide search for a replacement proved fruitless, the multifaceted frontman did what would be expected of someone with Durst's 'just watch me' attitude: he learned to play the instrument himself."

The headline for this article, by the way: "Durst Takes 'Less is More' Approach". Well, I should certainly think so. I wouldn't call rap-metal versions of "Bah Bah Black Sheep" and "Froggie Came A' Courtin'" examples of a 'More is More' approach. Honestly, does this man's ego have any bounds at all? He's barely a competent singer, and he's been hacking away at that for ten years now -- what on Earth makes him think he can master a musical instrument in a year's time?

Pick up a flute, right now. Blow on it and work your fingers over the holes. What does it sound like? Garbage? Most likely. To properly learn how to play an instrument, you need to invest years of practice. I'm not suggesting that ex-Limp Bizkit guitarist Wes Borland was some kind of virtuoso genius. But certainly he was a competent guitar player with fifteen years of experience with his instrument. Playing guitar, despite what some might think, is actually something of a skill. Your fingers have to go on the right frets and everything. It takes more than a 'just watch me' attitude to play guitar -- it also, oddly enough, takes years of practice at learning how to play the guitar.

What bothers me most about this article is the suggestion that a one-year's-worth-of-experience Fred Durst is somehow the superior option here. As the article states: "A nationwide search for a replacement proved fruitless." Limp Bizkit auditioned the finest guitar players in North America and turned them all down, for what rationale I can't even begin to imagine. Then having done that, Fred Durst enlists himself, with no guitar experience, at the helm instead. Who the hell were they auditioning? Were there people trying out with negative years experience on the guitar? How bad does a guitarist have to be that you choose a guitar player with zero years experience at playing the guitar? "Well, he was certainly better than all those guys with -19 years experience."

Bah. The only bright side to all of this is, of course, the inevitable fruit of this new musical direction. I, for one, wait avidly for what promises to be a veritable train wreck of an album. Stay tuned!

2002-10-10T20:34:00.000-04:00

W@hoops

I thi8nk I've broken my keyboard. In retrosp0ect, I8 Shou7ld have gu7esSed I mi8ght have broken somethi8ng w2hen I8 sPi8lled a good tw2elve ou7nceS of Sp0ri8te on i8t earli8er today. Sti8ll -- i8t w2asn't acti8ng u7p0 u7nti8l now2.

Now2, i8t'S really really acti8ng up0, thou7gh.

Hmmmm. How2 mu7ch does a keyboard cost?

2002-10-10T20:17:00.000-04:00

Please Give Generously, So That I Can Kill Karyn

Talking to Neil on ICQ moments ago, when the following horrifying message "UH-OH!"ed its way to my attention:

Neil (07:06 PM) :
I see Beltzner is asking for money on his blog!

Egads, I thought. Mike? Begging for change on his blog like some moth-eaten hobo? "Have things gotten that bad for him?" I thought, my heart bursting with sympathy. "Holy Hell, does Mike really have that little dignity?" I thought soon after, replacing my sympathy with the much more familiar black bilious clouds of rage and moral indignance. Mike would have to be dealt with, that much was clear.

Perhaps I should preface my seemingly off-the-cuff decision to punish someone I know and like quite well. I'd recently read an article at Salon that talked about a new trend called "cyber-begging." And much like doing Macarenas, wearing ill-fitting pants, or watching streaming .avi's of "All Your Base Are Belong To Us", the cyber-begging trend is, I assure you, thoroughly reprehensible -- and worthy of all the disdain you, my fellow man or woman, can muster.

How the craze caught on is like this: a rich television producer named Karyn Bosnak was pulling down just under $4,000 a month and living the good life in a hopelessly rich and trendy apartment in downtown Brooklyn, apparently unconcerned with the troubling spelling of her first name. She shopped at Gucci, ate in nice restaurants, and lived a kind of endless Mentos commercial of a life. Since Karyn at age 29 was probably already more successful than both of your parents combined, and certainly more hip than anybody you know, you may feel free to loathe her.

At any rate, in between having money fights with her show business friends and defecating purest rose-scented candles, Karyn managed to rack up a twenty grand bill on her credit card. She would have been able to pay at least some of this off with her savings account, except that she didn't have one, because in addition to being extremely lucky and wealthy, Karyn was kind of an idiot.

Now, we all get in tight times now and then. But where someone like you or I might get saddled with a twenty grand debt for a student loan, or a mortgage, or a child's dental work, Karyn went with the more original route of pissing away $20,000 she didn't have on useless trendy garbage. Again, feel totally free to loathe her, I'm not stopping you.

Faced with harsh reality for the first time in her life, Karyn was inequipped to deal with a crisis that you or I, with our regular crappy jobs and bills and responsibilities, would immediately begin saving up to pay off. Karyn, not knowing any better, started up a website begging complete strangers for money. Not seting up an appointment with her bank to work out a payment plan with her sizable monthly income. Not attempting to sell back some of the useless garbage she'd wasted all the money on. Not in any way taking responsibility for her actions in any way. Just asking people she didn't know to get her out of it.

And, of course, it worked, because why shouldn't more things happen to give me ulcers? Karyn has managed to pay off the entirety of her loan. Not only that, but she's gotten famous off of it, appaearing in magazines and daytime television shows. And all thanks to the kindness of people she didn't even know, who took the time to send her money (in one case, $1000.) This is the kind of thing that makes me want to carve Karyn's credit card into a Japanese throwing star and mount her to the wall with it. Good God, The David Suzuki Foundation works tirelessly to fight for the health of our ecosystem and many endangered creatures. Hope For African Children is a non-profit organization devoted to helping starving children dying of AIDS. There are literally thousands of charities you could donate a dollar or two, in seconds, online, if you were so inclined. But people don't think like that, do they? They think "Oh, this is new," and give Karyn $40 so they'll have a story to tell their friends, and television producer Karyn gets to roll around with her goateed, lattee-sipping boyfriend on a pile of Gucci totebags while an African kid dies of AIDS.

I would hope your first reaction, like mine, would be "How could this spoiled idiot have gotten away with this?" I also hope your second reaction, like mine, would be "How do I get in on this?" Unfortunately, you're too late for that. Karyn started a a tidalwave of a trend, and now everyone with half a brain and a cable modem is trying it, to increasingly diminished returns. Naturally, this isn't stopping people in the least. Just keep stabbing at that bright red button, huh?

And then Mike. Oh, no. Not Mike too? I quickly trucked over to his blog to see for myself. I might never stop slapping him.

And...

Mike, it turns out, is looking for sponsors for a charity drive for The Hospital For Sick Children, the big dumb lovable galoot. He's not a trend-hopping moron! He's a caring, nurturing moron!

So that susses up that. Except that now I have to endlessly slap Neil instead of Mike, for blatantly misrepresenting Mike in ICQ conversations. Please, give generously to the Jay Stomping a Bootprint Into Neil Foundation... won't you?

2002-10-07T15:07:00.000-04:00

The History of the Blog

It’s easy to forget how quickly things change. Many of us forget that, as recently as 1996, there weren’t a lot of outlets for average, everyday folks under the mistaken impression that others would be interested in their lives. There was self-publishing, of course, but that involved a lot of work and tended to involve ink stains. There was also, by then, the personal webpage. For a time, this managed to fill society’s pressing need to show complete strangers pictures of their cats, dancing baby animations and badly-spelled, vague manifestos of their bong-hitted philosophy.

And yet it somehow just wasn’t enough. The “webpage” simply didn’t allow for the sheer levels of vanity and self-obsession the populace had to offer. “Yes, I’m free to post pictures of my Christmas party and list my favourite Babylon 5 links,” all admitted, “But in terms of sheer quantity, it’s insufficient. If only there were some way to keep everyone else up-to-date on the minutiae of my life all the time, without having to learn things, like HTML or proper grammar.”

Enter the weblog – or “blog”, as it’s come to be slurred – the next step in online evolution. As a technology, the blog was unsurpassed in its ability to let us delude ourselves into thinking our lives are as interesting and noteworthy as Bruce Willis’s. One of the pioneers of blogging, editor of Infosift Jesse James Garrett, first began chatting about his moods and linking to stuff he liked in 1997. Profiled for a magazine on his strange behaviour, he soon received emails from 22 others who also “logged” their thoughts online. One brief decision to link each other later, the firs “blog” community was born. Though the 23 founders would run out of interesting things to say about their lives within hours, this didn’t stop the phenomenon from growing to the proportions it holds today: every single person with a modem connection talking about themselves and their frustrating days spent being secretaries and administrative assistants at large medical firms.

What is it about the human animal that compels us to share? Are we all just egomaniacs? Are we looking to prove somehow that we’re more than just cogs in the giant machine? Are we simply venting about stupid trivial things under the mistaken impression that anybody cares?

Yes, yes, and yes, of course. Long live the blog. At least until science figures out a way to graft megaphones onto our mouths, thus allowing us to take our obsessive need to make people interested in our lives to the next logical step.

2002-10-06T20:10:00.000-04:00

A Strict Regimen of Self-Improvement

Hey hey HEY! Eat it with walnuts, suckas! Looks like Mr. Pinkerton figured out how to stop his blog from causing strokes in small Japanese children! *

That's right, folks. The stage run of "Jay And His Technicolour Dream-Blog" has come to an end. In its place...

Well, this. I think this is pretty respectable, eh? Look at those soft tones. Man. I'D read me now, and I already know what I'm gonna say.

In light of this metamorphosis, I now segue ham-handedly into my new goal for self-improvement. Now, those who know me might say "Again?" And yes, admittedly I have started down this road many times before. Specifically, about 15,662 times. And every time I last about three weeks. Yes, I give you these points. (Although, I might add you said "Again?" in an excessively sarcastic tone. You'll get more bees with honey than vinegar, you know. I think that's how it goes. Something to do with bees and vinegar, anyway. Maybe 'You'll get more vinegar with bees." But that doesn't make much sense. Whose vinegar supplies are that low that they'd need to recruit bees? I keep my pantry stocked with litres of vinegar at all times, and I can only assume others follow my lead.)

Where was I?

Oh yes. THIS time, my self-improvement scheme will succeed. Why? I'll tell you. In a word: stress. Every so often I decide I want a new, healthier direction in life. That my bad habits are many and varied (to date, drinking, smoking, eating fatty foods, biting my nails, lethargy, a poor work ethic and, I've been told, questionable hygeine). And so I set off on a new path -- a path with small, healthy meals involving chicken breast and brown rice; regular cardio at the gym; the lifting of weights at same; good bedtimes; no more smokes; no more beer; and so on. And I do well for a little bit. Then:

BAM! Stress. Long nights at work. Sudden obligations to write funny things for possible publishing. Or, my personal favourite, girls, or more specifically A girl, and whether she likes me, and going out on a first date, and do I like her, and all that business. Stress. And within a day I've reverted back to all my comfort vices to make things easier.

But this time -- ah, this time I'm prepared. I've LEARNED from my mistakes, and it has made me that much wilier. My plan is this: from now on, I will not have any stress. I will make a conscious pact that from now on, there will be no more surprises in my life. I will bar myself up in my apartment with a selection of soups and other non-perishable food items, and I will bunker down until my life is fantastic.

It's almost TOO easy.

* Actually, Mike sent me an email with explicit numbered instructions. Even then it took me an hour.

2002-09-30T22:50:00.000-04:00

godsdammit...

I never update this thing. How the Christ do you get this stupid blog to stop changing colours? I hate blogs, they're stupid. My chest hurts.

Plus, I went and looked at Andrew's blog, and Mike's, and Chel's, and Sara's, and Ian's, and they all update them all the time. That just makes me look foolish. Where do they find the time? And theirs are all well laid out, and there are pictures. Pictures! I can't compete with that.

Well, more posts once I figure out how this blog thing works, I suppose.

2002-08-25T10:58:00.000-04:00

How To Assemble an IKEA Computer Desk

"How do I properly assemble an IKEA computer desk?" is a question I'm asked often, directly behind "How did you get into my house?" and "You sold my insulin for a Skor bar?" The last two questions are answered easily: "Through the window with a brick," and "Yes, so?" respectively. It's the first question that gets a little tricky, since I have no idea how to properly assemble an IKEA computer desk. I can only help you by telling you how I assembled my IKEA computer desk. Hopefully, you can use these instructions to assemble your own IKEA computer desk by process of elimination: simply do the opposite of everything I did, and you should be fine.

Step One: Agree to help Mike and Dawn move into their new condo. Accept Mike's offer to give you a microwave and IKEA computer desk he won't be needing. When Mike shows up to pick you up on moving day and drop off the desk, be careful not to ask him any questions whatsoever concerning proper assembly and function.

Step Two: Avoid breakfast entirely, and help move Mike and Dawn's stuff to their new condo. Following the move, drink several Red Cap beers on an empty stomach, say goodbye politely, and take the subway home. Leaving subway, realize you're a little tipsy and now with a taste for further drink. Pick up beer on way home. Note: under no circumstances should you avoid this step if you really want to make a long, Job-like trial of your IKEA computer desk assembly.

Step Three:Relax and enjoy several of your purchased beers. Get good and confident. Suddenly realize you could snap together that silly computer desk right now if you wanted to, not waiting until tomorrow as previously planned. Listen to a small, nagging voice of reason in the back of your mind, explaining to you in a reasonable tone that maybe building a large metal desk full of sharp jagged parts while half-potted is somewhat unwise. Ignore this voice.

Step Four:Clear area in your small bachelor apartment in which to assemble your IKEA computer desk. Do not under any circumstances pick an area remotely close to the area where the desk will go once assembled. Pick an area on the other side of the room; open another beer and congratulate yourself for having the hair to get this job done tonight. You are a real man, friend. Hmm, these beers are going quickly.

Step Five: Realize with sudden clarity just how heavy drop-forged solid steel desk frames can be. Make note of how small desk looked in Mike's sprawling two-bedroom apartment, and conversely, how it takes up fully two-thirds of your cramped bachelor apartment (read: room with a sink and a window). Make final realization that there don't seem to be any screws with which to adhere to heavy solid steel desk parts to each other. Commence fruitless search. Phone Mike in desperation some half an hour later, and discover the screws to be in the microwave. Feel free to look stupid at this point.

Step Six: Screw on first of two heavy wooden slats to frame. Stop and reflect on accomplishments. Drink more booze, if possible. Clear area where you were actually intending to put the desk, disconnecting the seven thousand wires and plugs that power your computer. Begin to realize what a large undertaking all this actually was. Realize bookshelf is in the way of where new desk will go. Take out all books, move bookshelf to new location, put books back in. Begin to get cross. Move old computer desk out of area where new computer desk will go. Realize you have no place to put old computer desk in your small bachelor apartment. Place old desk in hallway, directly in the path of bathroom door. This is a good idea, because you've been drinking beer all night, and therefore will have no need to go to the bathroom.

Step Seven: A full two hours after deciding to undertake this (now mammoth and aggravating) assembly, finally move IKEA computer desk over to area where you want it. Notice its immense heaviness due to the metal and wood slat you have already screwed to it. Unscrew wooden slat, undoing the one accomplishment you've successfully made in the past 120 minutes. Weep bitterly. Try to move desk again. Note large obstructions in path, like end table and couch. Toy briefly with idea of moving these items of furniture. Ignore this idea on the grounds that you've wasted enough time with this stupid thing already. This big metal bitch is going over there, you say, and that's all there is to it. Remember to lift with your back and be very drunk.

Step Eight: While navigating painfully heavy IKEA computer desk over the first of many obstacles, knock over glass on end table, scattering glass shards all over your walkway and into the weaving of your throw rug. Put down desk and spend twenty minutes thoroughly brooming up glass shards. Place these in a garbage bag. Pick up desk again. Knock over several other things. This is important: step directly on the garbage bag with all the glass shards on it. Oh yes.

Step Nine: Remove wads of paper towel from bottom of foot when the bleeding has stopped. Clean up the blood stains on floor that lead out the hallway and to the bathroom, where the first aid was. Note ruefully the blood stains going up and over the unweildy old desk directly in front of the bathroom door containing first aid. Curse, if you want to. It will make you feel better.

Step Ten: Realize three hours have passed. Admit temporary defeat and decide to just check a little email and surf the net a bit, then worry about all this tomorrow. Realize you can't get on your computer until the stupid fucking IKEA computer desk is properly assembled. Decide to just get this whole hellish process over with. Crawl over old computer desk to go to the bathroom. Repeat this many times throughout night, as you get progressively less coordinated.

Step Eleven: Prepare to screw the final, large piece to the desk: the "desk" part, a cumbersome metal and wood part where all your stuff will actually rest upon, like a jeyboard and mouse and such. One might pause at this point, and suspect this is actually a two man job: one man to hold the excruciatingly heavy metal and wood part in place while another screws it to the frame. In burst of creativity, make your second, metal-and-wood-part-holding man Mike's other gift to you, the also-heavy upended microwave.

With upended microwave holding immensely heavy metal and wood part up, spend a full two hours trying to get one screw into the two interconnected pieces. It is dark and hard to see the hole. Once the screw goes through the hole it must come out the other side and enter the metal and wood part. Since you cannot actually see the hole in the metal and wood part (it's being held against the frame, remember), you must repeat this process an estimated six hundred thousand times in a near-infinite number of combinations. Finally, all four of the stupid screws are through the stupid holes and the stupid goddamn IKEA cimputer desk is installed. Your apartment at this point should be a shambles of broken glass, blood. There should be a wake of destruction from the blast radius of the desk. Go to bed, the desk installed. Remember to not pick up phone the next time Mike wants to give you a piece of furniture in which the assembly takes on any resemblance to the novel Moby Dick.

2002-08-25T10:09:00.000-04:00

A Mystery Presents Itself

I should probably explain why I haven't posted anything since my first post. The easiest way to explain it is that I forgot how to post. I came back to my blog a few days ago intending to update it. Sure enough, there was my blog. There was my first post. And... hmmm. No post button. No login button. "Well, no matter," I thought. "I'll head back to the blogspot homepage. Surely there's some kind of sign in there." So I clicked the blogspot box directly at the top of this page, surfing over to this confusing mess. Did I want to sign up to blogspot? it asked.

"No, you stupid machine. I want to sign IN to my existing account."

The page didn't have any quick answers to this, so I back-buttoned over to my page again. Clicked on the title. Clicked my name. Clicked random chunks of text. Nothing. Reread my original post in the dim hope I might have left clues for myself to follow in this eventuality. Taking the first letter from every sentence, unfortunately, only spelled out "Wsci twp ybb".

Forty minutes later, I gave up and downloaded some South Park episodes instead.

I eventually figured it out, as you can see. Still, though -- if you find those blog guys hanging around somewhere, give them a good solid kick in the sternum for me.

2002-08-10T21:38:00.000-04:00

An Intriguing Discovery

While out for dinner with friends, I make it a point not to listen too closely to anything anybody is saying. I find this helpful for many reasons; firstly, of course, it gives me that much more time in which to prepare what I intend to say next. Secondly, I have never seen any evidence that my friends are remotely as interesting as I am. Consequently, until I am in a position in my life to purchase new, better friends, I am comfortable enough using my fall-back strategy, which is to contemplate the many fascinating things I could say while nodding at whoever happens to be talking. I suspect most people converse in this manner. This makes that rarest of beasts -- someone who listens – a precious commodity, and a difficult to procure one at that, since most listeners are far too dull to be found out easily. While the rest of us walk through life with our mouths wide open to the elements, those few listeners among our ranks tend to be somewhat difficult to find, given their irksome insistence on not broadcasting their every thought at anyone within earshot. Plus, and I’ll point this out again, they tend to be very boring. Yes, they might point to the quiet dignity they exude with their mysteriousness. But this doesn’t change the fact that, because they have the irritating trait of reminding you of something stupid you said years ago, they are immediately suspicious and quick to be avoided. Besides, who has time to seek out quiet loners when there’s so much talking to get in?

I seem to have digressed a fair bit. Let me trace this back: I was with friends, having dinner. One friend, Mike, mentioned something about a blog. I immediately concluded this word to be nonsense and, suspecting Mike of having a stroke, got about the business of ignoring him.

Unfortunately, he kept up with the blog business long enough until I was forced to admit it might actually be a real word. Reluctantly, I stopped talking and tried to focus on his nonsense. This proved too difficult, so I just interrupted him with a loud question, as is my adorable way.

“So it’s like a diary, then?”

“Kind of,” said Mike with the wearying patience of someone who has obviously just explained this while I failed to listen. Note to self: eventually, Mike will have to go. There’s no room in a dictatorship for a back-talker; come the revolution, Mike would have to disappear, and quickly.

“Kind of how?” I continued. “Kind of like it’s exactly like a diary?”

“Well, no,” replied Mike. “You see, a blog is--" and then I lost interest again. Still, an online diary! I had to agree with his unspoken request that I immediately start this blog business myself. I shared his wink-and-a-nod, also-unspoken assertion that readers would be absolutely floored by the nuts and bolts of my day-to-day life. However, it irked me that he was still explaining what a blog was, since I’d gathered the gist. I asked him to stop talking, and of course, with a frown, he did. I didn’t understand the frown. Mike’s got problems, to be honest. Manic depressive, most likely.

But Mike, despite his inner demons, had a very good point. In these, the first fumbling steps of the new millennium, it was perhaps time to begin cataloguing my frankly staggering day-to-day accomplishments. I have, after all, helped shape countless news events over the years; perhaps I owed it to the public to document these exploits for future ages to ponder over and admire. I have also used my considerable power to crush countless people and bed countless more, and this too deserves recording. In short, I am fascinating. I envy you, the reader, for the journey into which you now embark.

This is my first ever attempt at “writing,” so I hope you’ll bear with me if it seems at times that I can’t properly formulate thoughts. A life spent loudly speaking at people has unfortunately atrophied my literary skills. When I first sat down to put fingers to keyboard, in fact, I realized to my confusion that I had forgotten what letters were supposed to do. I was fully aware that they composed words in some way, of course; but the baffling nature of how they did this confounded me at every turn. After forty minutes of uninterrupted typing, the only results of my efforts were twelve dense pages of lowercase q’s and ampersands.

Luckily, my second attempt proved far more fruitful. This time I simply talked at a mirror that I pretended was someone I wasn’t listening to, while a talented ghostwriter named Jenny something (her name is frankly irrelevant to my narrative) typed my voice out onto a computing machine into “blog” format. The results of these dictations are the body of the text you now read. I hope you will be rewarded for your effort, as I was, with a series of words. Words that, when joined together in ways I can’t begin to fathom, form salient and intelligible sentences.

More on this later.