Realizing when I got in to work this morning that my toothpaste had failed me miserably and left my breath in its basest state of rancor, I retrieved a brand new tin of Altoids from my desk drawer. The lid was held tightly shut by a band of thick cellophane that happened to have a vertical red stripe, presumably indicating where to pull in order to most easily remove the protective plastic. I pulled and pried with everything I had in me, but it was like trying to peel a hockey puck. The plastic band simply would not give.
The red stripe glared at me. “You’re a fucking wimp,” it finally snorted in disgust. Of course, life’s to short to take shit from the cellophane on a tin of Altoids, so I got out the trusty Benchmade. But even as I cavalierly sliced that red strip right down the middle, the little bastard's derision endured. “Wassamatter, princess? Aw, need Mr. Pigstabber to do it for you? Maybe your mommy could help. About time for her to change your diaper anyway, isn’t it, Shirley?”
So now I know. If you want to enjoy curiously strong breath mints, it helps if you yourself are also curiously strong. I suppose that goes without saying, but I never expected packaging so clever as to test the consumer’s strength prior to relinquishing the product.
Hey peeps! It’s been almost a year since I mentioned this so I just want to quickly remind you guys that you can help contribute to charitable causes simply by clicking a web button. Doing so takes up an almost imperceptible fraction of your daily surfing time. In fact, donating to The Animal Rescue Site would take about the time it took you to read this sentence. One click. No lie. The clicks from yesterday alone provided 186,935 bowls (42.4 metric tons) of food.
Plus, everything you buy from them provides shelter animals with necessary relief. And, seriously, who wouldn’t want this incredible t-shirt? (I mean besides mailmen and people on the lam, of course.)
By the way, The Animal Rescue Site is a part of GreaterGood.org. If you like the idea of giving just by clicking, you will want to also visit the GreaterGood sites for World Hunger, Breast Cancer, Child Health, Literacy, and Protection of Rainforests.
So I guess the newest idiot remark by John McCain that has the blogosphere pointing and laughing comes from his appearance today on Good Morning America:
DIANE SAWYER: Do you agree the situation in Afghanistan is precarious and urgent?
JOHN MCCAIN: Well, I think it's very serious. I think it's a serious situation.
SAWYER: Not precarious and urgent?
MCCAIN: Oh, I don't know exactly-- run through the vocabulary. But it's a very serious situation. But there's [sic] a lot of things we need to do. We have a lot of work to do and I'm afraid that it's a very hard struggle, particularly given the situation on the Iraq/Pakistan border. And I would not announce that I'm going to attack Pakistan as Senator Obama did...
Now, I’ll agree the bolded section of the block quote appears at first glance to be a profoundly stupid statement. But all the harping about how Iraq and Pakistan don’t share a border is misguided and easily countered by right-wing apologists with the very valid assertion that live television allows very little room for error and McCain simply misspoke, saying “Iraq” when he meant “Iran”. Everywhere I look, that’s the repeated verbal volley.
But maybe everyone is so focused on the specifics of what McCain said that they’re missing the implication of his words. Maybe McCain didn’t misspeak at all, but rather uttered that sentence exactly as he had rehearsed it. His doddering persona may have fooled the masses into thinking he isn’t capable of clever innuendo – and he probably isn’t – but I can’t help but feel a twang of suspicion when I hear a presidential candidate known for joking about bombing Iran basically refer to that same area as just a border between the two countries on either side of it.
One last thing. Obama never said he would attack Pakistan – that's yet another lie made up by Dubya – but isn't it funny that McCain took that shot anyway, especially considering his afore-mentioned "Bomb Iran" guffaw?
I'm just sayin'.
I often stare at the people passing by.
But they can’t see me through my window shades.
Just like I’m not even there...
– Oingo Boingo, Private Life
One of the things about living at the end of a relatively secluded cul-de-sac is that your front window often doubles as a viewfinder into a counter-cultural microcosm. Every now and then, you're granted a front row viewing of some of the most taboo things people do outside of homes and hotels. You are afforded this entertainment because when it comes to committing clandestine acts, there’s no shortage of people who think a dead-end street is as private as their own basement or bedroom. You’d think the reduction of potential escape routes to only one might be a glaring deterrent – even rats are keen to that point – but no. Evidently, some people actually have less common sense than laboratory rodents. Well, okay, I guess that’s not entirely fair; maybe rats would be more steadfast in blind-alley situations if they had cars with tinted windows, but whatever.
Hot Boxin’
I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve watched high school kids pull up in a Jetta/Accord/Ranger and commence to blazing up a fat bowl of the skunky ganj right there in plain sight. I’m most often treated to this at around 11am on those weekdays when I’m working from home. I sometimes wonder if the Scheduling Imps at the high school office deliberately give all the stoners first lunch, though that seems rather problematic considering the school has only so many vending machines.
I’m often tempted to dig out a laser pointer and really mess with their minds but more often then not, the potheads will only stay long enough to hit the pipe a few times and then they’re gone. Lunch break is short and I imagine they still have to hit the 7-Eleven for Funyuns and Red Bull. You know, due to the school’s vending machine availability problem.
Liquid Lunch
Much less frequent is the rusted out one-ton with the two dopey painters who somehow find their mid-day sustenance in 24 ounces of Budweiser and half a dozen filterless Camels. You can tell they’ve been doing this gig a while; they have all the telltale signs. Their middle and index fingers look like jaundiced, overcooked hot dogs. The deep cracks in their leathern faces speak to lives every bit as damaging but nowhere near as entertaining as those of Keith Richards and Lou Reed. Their coughs are quite obviously chronic, as are their facial petechiae and overall sweaty appearance.
Liquid Lunchers hang out a tad longer than the stoners if for no other reason than they are required to hit the 7-Eleven before coming here due to the simple fact Budweiser is undrinkable unless ice cold.
Junk Dumpers
Occasionally, some overalled grease monkey will try and dump the carcass of the latest piece-of-shit jalopy he’s gutted and stripped of all usable parts. One guy actually took the time to set the dead minivan he was ditching up on blocks so he could take the wheels. The neat thing about that particular incident is that I easily recognized the meticulous individual as the guy from two blocks over who runs a side business fixing lawnmowers in his garage. He was a bit surprised, I think, to see me at his door. He told me putting it there was only temporary and that he'd had every intention to come back and get it in a few says. Goober had obviously forgotten he’d removed all the damn wheels, but he wasn’t really giving me any resistance, so I decided it would be dickish of me to point out the holes in his story.
I don’t really get why people just dump cars. Last time I checked, most wrecking yards will come out and pick up the things if you’re just getting rid of them. Seems to me dumping them on a secluded street is just making extra work for everyone and putting yourself out there to be censured on your own front doorstep. Hell, people less civilized than me would more likely ignite some dog shit on your doorstep and call the junkyard themselves.
Exhibitionist Fornicators
You see them on sitcoms all the time. You know, those randy sex addicts who get the most aroused when they do it in public and are known to spontaneously pull into a quiet cul-de-sac and start getting it on right there in the parked car?
Yeah, those people don’t actually exist have never shown up here.
Your eyes do not deceive. You are not experiencing a hallucinatory event. Those are indeed bacon cheeseburgers with Krispy Kremes for buns.
Via Flickr
This concept thoroughly disgusts me, but at the same time I get the feeling this is the sort of thing I would crave if I were to ever get pregnant.
And speaking of great tastes that taste great wrong together, how about these mac-n-cheese-n-hotdog tacos?
In the spirit of the silliness this post, I have a question for you. If you had to eat a plateful of those tacos or a plateful of cheeseburgers with donut buns, which would you choose?
Me? Tacos. All the way.
Can't wait to see what IG thinks of her two favorite foods (bacon and donuts) coming together in this manner.
Well, the last meager speck of my appreciation for Metallica has finally been carried aloft and out of sight, never to be reclaimed. That’s quite an event, really, because there was a time when Metallica were nothing short of godlike to me. I held on as a card-carrying fanboy until the release of the aptly named Load. But even after that, I never completely lost hope. I always thought there was a chance they’d come back around and stop acting like self-absorbed douche-bags.
Turns out they weren’t acting. It seems their douche-baggery is all too real.
Let me shift focus for a moment and direct you toward a report by Justine Sharrock entitled The Torture Playlist. In the report, we learn that loud music is an effective psychological tool used during interrogations at places like Guantanamo Bay and that the musical selection ranges from Deicide’s Fuck Your God to Eminem’s White America to, believe it or not, the jingle for Meow Mix cat food.
Now, I don’t want to get into a debate over whether listening to Neil Diamond at a bajillion decibels for three days straight constitutes torture. I’m certain anyone who says it doesn’t would quickly prove to be full of shit were they subjected to such treatment – sleep deprivation’s a bitch – but I don’t want to get too far away from my original point which is that Metallica are total douche-bags.
So anyway, when Rage Against the Machine learned of the manner in which their music was being used at Guantanamo Bay, they wrote the State Department requesting such use be stopped. They may have rage, but they’re not down with torture.
Metallica, by way of contrast, was honored. They were thrilled their cookie-cutter schlock tune Enter Sandman was used to terrorize people who may or may not be enemy combatants. They went fucking batshit with the lawyers when that turd of a song got downloaded through Napster a few thousand times, but they’re totally cool with it being used against people who are deliberately denied legal counsel and due process.
So fuck you, Metallica. You haven’t created anything worth listening to in twenty years. You suck. You’ve completely sold out, forgotten your roots, and become full-on elitist hypocrites. Don't get me started on how you so casually took that great Bob Seger song into the back room and kicked it to death. You’ve gone from being “too fucking metal for radio” to being the premier metal act for the dulled bovine masses. The average age of your fans has dropped from 23 to 13. You are whores.
Cliff wouldn’t even know you.
The first Zen master to teach in the United States was a man named Soyen Shaku of the Rinzai school of Buddhism. He is quoted as saying, “My heart burns like fire but my eyes are as cold as dead ashes.” Those were profound words considering he was afflicted with neither acid-reflux nor acute blindness.
It is said the Rinzai master devised a list of eight rules and practiced them daily his whole life. The list is pretty straightforward and can be embraced by anyone, regardless of religious belief or socio-political leanings. Soyen Shaku’s list of rules is as follows:
In the morning before dressing, light incense and meditate.
Retire at a regular hour. Partake of food at regular intervals. Eat with moderation and never to the point of satisfaction.
Receive a guest with the same attitude you have when alone. When alone, maintain the same attitude you have in receiving guests.
Watch what you say, and whatever you say, practice it.
When an opportunity comes do not let it pass by, yet always think twice before acting.
Do not regret the past. Look to the future.
Have the fearless attitude of a hero and the loving heart of a child.
Upon retiring, sleep as if you had entered your last sleep. Upon awakening, leave your bed behind you instantly as if you had cast away a pair of old shoes.
Of course, Soyen Shaku’s rules were written some time ago and the language is a bit stiff. I bet a lot of people nowadays either get bored and quit reading or become confused and decide to just go on being jerky simpletons the rest of their lives. Pondering that, I decided it might be nice to translate into 21st century English the wise sentiments expressed above so that they might be further proliferated. So here is my contribution to global spiritual enlightenment, a present-day translation of Soyen Shaku’s eight practices:
Inward reflection is best in the morning. Do it naked with some nice aromatherapy candles burning.
Stop partying all night and eating crappy fast food at 2am. And no more super-size!
Keep it real.
Don’t bullshit people and don’t be a flaky asshole.
Don’t be a gullible dipshit or a clueless loser.
Get over it and move on.
Be like Dr. Who.
Crash out hard but don’t waste the day in bed.
There, doesn’t seem quite so daunting now, does it?
The thing about your cat finding your long lost, hand-knitted, wool gloves for you is that he only brings you one and then refuses to reveal the location of the other.
So I’m pushing my cart through Albertson’s this morning, minding my own business, when a round, jolly-looking woman comes from out of nowhere (I blame a ridiculously overstocked endcap) and runs her cart straight into the side of mine. There was a moment of startled silence before I spoke up.
“Well,” I deadpanned, “I guess we better exchange insurance information.”
At that, the rotund lady began laughing. Hysterically. And then she started to turn red. Then commenced coughing. And sort of shaking a little. I pretty much watched her pleasure turn into predicament in the span of maybe eight seconds. She was coughing so violently that I thought an internal organ might peek out her mouth momentarily. I started to move to her aid – rather instinctively, I now recollect – but she threw her hand up in that gesture that says, “It’s alright. Don’t freak out. I’ll be fine. This happens all the time.”
And sure enough, a few moments later, she was fully upright and breathing normally again. I think the redness probably lasted a while, though. Wiping her eyes, she said, “Lordy, that struck me funny. He he. Made me swallow hard.”
My relief that she was recovering completely overshadowed any pride I might have had in my flawlessly delivered bit of improv.
The moral of this story is if you’re an amateur and you go around trying to be funny all the time, your lack of professional experience is bound to end up causing casualties eventually. The right joke in the wrong hands delivered the right way to the wrong person might just have the power to kill.
Then the meaning of “funny” starts to slowly mutate until you no longer understand the difference between funny-haha and funny-ohgodthepain. Next thing you know, you’re so maniacally obsessed with making everyone understand your new brand of comedy, you’ll do anything to get their attention, including wear ghastly amounts of makeup and blow stuff up.
By the way, have I mentioned yet how excited I am about the impending premiere of The Dark Night, two weeks* from today? Oh, it’s going to be something. Yes, indeedy.
I’m so excited, in fact, that I made you guys this lovely VOX banner. Feel free to use it as you see fit, at least until WB sends a cease and desist. :-P
Now, in the spirit of early preparation, I must go look up where my nearest IMAX theater is...
*three weeks for my friends in the UK.
I woke up this morning and realized I had finally lost enough hair and gained the appropriate amount of wrinkles and self-loathing to qualify as being eligible for a full-blown mid-life crisis. Not knowing how else to deal with it, I did the only thing I’d ever been told to do when faced with the dilemma of impending old age…
…so, what do you peeps think of my new wheels? It’s a Lotus, baby!
No. I didn't actually go out and spend $67,000 on a glorified go-kart. And if I did decide to buy myself a shiny new racecar, I certainly wouldn't have chosen one that was lemon-drop yellow.
But I did get to take a ride in this glossy beauty last week and while I definitely had a blast finding out what a Lotus Exige S capable of, I can’t really see why anyone would actually purchase one. It’s not that I don’t like sports cars or that I think it’s a bad idea to make a car out of plastic and aluminum; it’s just that for that kind of money, I would want something that didn’t feel like it might fly apart at any moment.
See, the manufacturer wanted the car to be as light as possible because it only holds a 4-cylinder engine. In order to get a four-banger to go from zero-to-sixty in four seconds, they needed to do some serious skimping somewhere. And since it is every bit as important for the car to be outwardly pretty as it is for it to haul ass, the interior is what ends up suffering the most. In other words, what the Lotus Exige S boasts in external beauty, it makes up for with a serious lack of anything resembling luxury on the inside*. Even things like personal comfort and painless entry/exit were thrown out the window in favor of getting the car down to its optimal racing weight.
It was an immensely satisfying drive, though. The seats may have been thin and cushionless and the engine may have been situated directly behind our heads, but that’s all fine when you’re rolling in such a sexy car. But as we were flying down I-5, I suddenly became acutely aware that we were being closely watched. By everyone. I chalked all the attention up to our ludicrous speed at first, but the stares didn’t stop even after we left the interstate and were just tooling along city streets. Fact is, everyone loves to look at an exotic car. It’s really unfortunate that most men who own such fine automobiles eventually convince themselves the looks are actually for them. But I digress.
What I want to impart to you with this post is that if you ever get a chance to roll in an exotic sports car, do take it, because someone paid an obscene amount of money for that ride and it just makes economical sense to take advantage of someone else’s ridiculous spending habits (and grab yourself a wicked adrenalin rush to boot), especially when Mr. Moneybags is outright asking you to.
Just don’t kid yourself. A sexy Lotus only makes you look attractive if you’ve already got it going on. If you’re 41 and balding like me, it just makes you look insecure and ripe for armed robbery.
*Not entirely true. They do come with a pretty nice Alpine stereo system.
