I have a very good friend here in town – a guy I’ve known for over 15 years. No, I’m not talking about Captain Morgan. But nice guess! To protect his identity, let’s call this friend “Scot” (yes, with one T...I'm trying not to give away his REAL name).
Scot is, by all accounts, a great guy. He’s easy going, mild mannered, and sociable. Scot and I, together and with groups both large and small, have attended music concerts, Cubs games, Bears games, Illini games, camping trips – you name it. In some neighborhoods, we’d be called “homies.” So you can imagine my shock and concern when I learned some days ago that Scot was missing.
The first part of this mystery takes place a couple Friday evenings ago. Geri and I were enjoying a lovely dinner together at Chicago’s premier sushi establishment, Japonais. It was my second birthday dinner of the week, a fabulous feast to precede a theater date where we would see the new Broadway sensation, Wicked. (It was wickedly clever, incidentally – I highly recommend). We agreed that the food at Japonais was a close second behind the best sushi restaurant you've never been to, Tsuki Sushi (Fullerton and Greenview, Chicago) - but that the service was far superior. But why we're talking about sushi now, I don't know. Would you please FOCUS on Scot? He went missing, dammit. Thank you.
Following dinner, Geri excused herself to reference the ladies room…so I passed the moment accessing a curious voice mail message left me from Scot’s cell phone number. Unfortunately, the ambience of the restaurant prevented me from fully comprehending the message. I presumed it was a drunken message laced with incoherent whiskey-babble, which is not so uncommon in my world, so I flipped the Samsung shut and slipped it back into my suit pants.
Scot had flown to Washington that weekend to visit our mutual friend (who we will call Brent - also with one T). Brent had secured tickets to an outdoor music concert featuring the Dave Matthews Band and the two were to party like college kids with Seattle Seagals and the like. It was going to be the best time two grown up kids could ever have in the state of Washington.
While I am personally unfamiliar with the region, Brent described much of central Washington State as a “desert.” The concert was to be held at a natural outdoor amphitheater, not unlike the world-famous Red Rocks venue in Colorado. Just swap mountains for desert. And without any bridges to sail under in the middle of the desert, the odds of getting shit on by the band's tour bus driver were much slimmer. At the very least, one particular flock of sightseeing Chicagoans would consider this a major plus. But I digress...again.
The whole weekend sounded like a grand time – and for an extra $20, Brent, Scot, and thousands of other show-goers were to camp out after the concert under a sea of stars. Cars lined up for acres like a massive tailgate party. All around them people pitched tents to pass out in afterward. Unfortunately for Scot, there was no “afterward.” That’s because he went missing before sundown.
Geri and I were having a Post-Wicked drink at a neighborhood pub when I received a strange text message from Brent. It was 12:40a CST – which would have been 10:40p out west. It read: “Dude. Scot is missing. He wandered off and we haven’t seen him for hours.”
Messages like these are also not uncommon in my world, so I jestfully replied “OMG – go find him!” Geri and I retired for the evening shortly after, as far as you know.
The next morning I received a call from Brent.
“Hey – sorry to call so early in the morning…but…have you heard from Scot?”
“No. WHY?” I asked, concerned.
“Because he’s still missing. We don’t know where he is. He just wandered off somewhere at around 7:30 last night and we haven’t seen him since.”
“Shit. I thought you were kidding, dude. He’s REALLY missing? Have you tried calling him?” Geri, who was browsing the unappetizing collection of condiments in my refrigerator, looked over at me with concern. The text message had been no joke. Scot was really missing - and he had now BEEN missing for 12 hours.
“Well…we did try calling him. That’s how we found out that his phone is in my car.” Brent sounded genuinely worried.
“Well has he tried calling YOU at all? He must have tried calling you?”
“I honestly don’t think he knows my number.”
That made sense, actually. People don’t memorize phone numbers any more. We program them into our cells with nicknames and don’t bother committing them to memory because we don’t have to. I call Geri all the time – I've been calling her for well over a year – but I couldn’t do it from anyone’s phone but my own because I don’t know what her number is. I only know to scroll down to her name on my contact list and press “send.” Things were suddenly not looking very good for Scot.
Brent and I thought aloud for a second. Scot had been drinking Jack and Coke for several hours in a large field in the middle of the desert, partying with an enthusiastic concert crowd. He then, for some unknown reason, decided to leave the group and wander off. He didn’t have his cell phone, didn’t know where he was, didn’t have a ride other than the people he came with, and couldn’t remember any important cell phone numbers. Most importantly, he had now been missing for over 12 hours.
“Dude,” I said, “You need to get a hold of the police.” Brent said he was working on it and would get back to me. I agreed to call should I hear from Scot first. This was a distinct possibility, we thought, as I have the easiest phone number to remember in the entire world. No, I’m not going to tell you what it is. Dream on.
I hung up with Brent and told Geri the news. We were suddenly fearful that something terrible happened to Scot. We imagined him wandering off somewhere, getting lost, falling into a hole in the ground, getting attacked by an animal of some kind, running into a group of deviants, passing out on the desert floor. Where was he? Where’d he go? Who was he with? Was he okay?
And then I remembered the call I’d received at Japonais the night before. The one I couldn’t hear that I assumed was whiskey-babble. Had that been Scot calling for help? I panicked and replayed the message. What had I done? Had I been the only one Scot thought to call in his hour of need? Was he in danger? I hastily plugged in my password and listened closely to the message. It wasn't Scot at all - it was Brent using Scot’s phone, drunk, and pretending to be a gay man looking for man love. Again, not so uncommon in my world. It’s really better that you not ask any questions.
Several hours later I received a phone call from Brent. “Scot’s alive, man. We’re going to get him now.” That was all I needed to hear to know everything I needed to know.
“He’s in jail, isn’t he?” I asked knowingly.
“Yep. Criminal trespassing.” Scot’s weekend in Washington State to see the Dave Matthews Band had become a $250 overnight stay at The Grant County correctional facility. Meanwhile, we all breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't been eaten by fireants.
Scot is released from the Grant County facility and there's only one mystery left to be solved: Did he drop the soap?
Scot’s version of the story, unfortunately, would shed little light on what actually happened that evening. He remembers very little - only that he had been drinking and stumbled off to find a place to urinate. At some point he lost his bearings and became disoriented. He didn’t have a phone or a number to call, so he wandered lonely as a cloud for a bit until he spotted some police officers. He says he approached them asking for directions, at which point they decided he was a either a menace to society or a menace to himself and gave him a ride to the station. His story completely blew my theory out of the water. I'd imagined a herd of police on horseback with long nets sweeping across neighboring farmland like the gorilla soldiers in Planet of the Apes, nabbing stray drunkards and piss bandits.
Scot is home safe now, so this long-winded story does have a somewhat happy ending. I like to remind Scot that this kind of thing never happened before he bought that Harley Davidson. Ever since then, trouble's had no problem finding him.
In closing, I'd like this be a lesson to all of us. For how much easier technology has made our lives, it’s not without some drawbacks. I recommend you memorize at least two phone numbers on the off chance you get lost at a Dave Matthews Concert and find yourself behind bars for criminal trespassing. Maybe even write a few down on a scrap of paper and stuff them in your wallet just in case.
Before posting, I sent this story to a friend of mine named Scott (two T's) to review. Here are his comments:
“…If this "Scot" is who I think it is, I believe he'd appreciate you throwing in a few truths into this “story” or “life lesson” or whatever literary term befits the text. First off, you need to mention the many hot (female) whores he banged that night prior to incarceration. Got that, many. Also, he's sporting a new prison tattoo he acquired from a homemade ink needle constructed from a Bic outer casing, a sharpened Bobbie pin, and a borrowed "Make the Pussy Purr" 3-speed electric motor. Finally, when the Deputy Sheriff hosed him down following booking, he kept calling "Scot" stallion, because he's hung like a horse. Now yous gots yourself da whole story.”
Yes, it's a hard knock life.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
THE BICYCLE DIARIES
Shocking! 7-time Tour de France victor Lance Armstrong may already be contemplating a comeback.
Reports say he's been motivated by recent allegations from the French press that he used an illegal blood booster agent prior to the 1999 Tour. Armstrong has repeatedly, and vehemently, denied these allegations.
A source close to the 2005 Champion says that if these reports persist, Armstrong plans to ruin the event for a generation of French cycling enthusiasts by winning it another 20 years in a row. "Frankly, we all assumed these mongrels would have backed off a long time ago - it's in their blood. As appalled as we are, we're equally surprised at the backbone they've showed in this ongoing "drug" war. If they know what's good for them, they'll shut up already."
I think Lance ought to do it an 8th time and actually USE performance enhancing drugs just for the fun of it. Why not? He's really got nothing left to prove - except maybe how much better he would have been all these years had he been really doped up. I think a little human interest story like that might actually make the event one worth watching.
Reports say he's been motivated by recent allegations from the French press that he used an illegal blood booster agent prior to the 1999 Tour. Armstrong has repeatedly, and vehemently, denied these allegations.
A source close to the 2005 Champion says that if these reports persist, Armstrong plans to ruin the event for a generation of French cycling enthusiasts by winning it another 20 years in a row. "Frankly, we all assumed these mongrels would have backed off a long time ago - it's in their blood. As appalled as we are, we're equally surprised at the backbone they've showed in this ongoing "drug" war. If they know what's good for them, they'll shut up already."
I think Lance ought to do it an 8th time and actually USE performance enhancing drugs just for the fun of it. Why not? He's really got nothing left to prove - except maybe how much better he would have been all these years had he been really doped up. I think a little human interest story like that might actually make the event one worth watching.
BREAKING NEWS
According to a "newsworthy" report on CNN, New Orleans flood waters are contaminated with e. coli - this according to an official in the office of Mayor Ray Nagin.
Is this REALLY news? I would imagine it's probably safe to say there's a LOT of shit in that water, so to speak. I guess I'm just not sure of the purpose of the report. Is this to discourage people from drinking it? Well, I've got news for the news media: if your senses of sight and smell won't prevent you from taking a big sip, or a leisurely dip, the confirmed presence of e. coli probably isn't going to. Plus, I always get e. coli and echinacea confused anyway. Which one is the herbal remedy again?
If the swimming pool at the Holiday Inn has e. coli in it - THAT'S news. Not stagnant floodwaters one week after a natural disaster. There's no plumbing! It'd be a miracle if there WASN'T shit in that water. Hell, e. coli should be the least of their concerns anyway. There's probably all sorts of shit worse than that floating around. I wouldn't be surprised if they find Nessie the Loch Ness monster swimming around in that sludge.
All this report really does is confirm the ugly truth: Nope - that's not a Baby Ruth bar.
Is this REALLY news? I would imagine it's probably safe to say there's a LOT of shit in that water, so to speak. I guess I'm just not sure of the purpose of the report. Is this to discourage people from drinking it? Well, I've got news for the news media: if your senses of sight and smell won't prevent you from taking a big sip, or a leisurely dip, the confirmed presence of e. coli probably isn't going to. Plus, I always get e. coli and echinacea confused anyway. Which one is the herbal remedy again?
If the swimming pool at the Holiday Inn has e. coli in it - THAT'S news. Not stagnant floodwaters one week after a natural disaster. There's no plumbing! It'd be a miracle if there WASN'T shit in that water. Hell, e. coli should be the least of their concerns anyway. There's probably all sorts of shit worse than that floating around. I wouldn't be surprised if they find Nessie the Loch Ness monster swimming around in that sludge.
All this report really does is confirm the ugly truth: Nope - that's not a Baby Ruth bar.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
FUN WITH ADD-ONS
Now you can show me where you live on my fancy GuestMap! I've placed a button in my sidebar that will let you stick a pin on a big map of the world indicating where you live. You can even post a little note there for all to read. Did you ever imagine you'd be having fun this big without paying for it?
What are you waiting for?? Click my little GuestMap bug on the left and put a little dot where you live!
What are you waiting for?? Click my little GuestMap bug on the left and put a little dot where you live!
THE CARNIVAL COMES TO TOWN
As reported, the cruise ships are on their way. Three Carnival Cruise Line ships, the Ecstasy, Sensation, and Holiday, have been chartered by the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) to provide 6 months temporary housing for victims of Hurricane Katrina. What a novel idea! It just sounds a little strange to say 2,600 victims will be on Ecstasy, another 2,600 will ride the Sensation, and another 1,800 will be going on Holiday.
The three ships will not be touring the Bahamas, but will instead be docked in breathtaking Mobile, Alabama. Carnival crews are expected to provide service for their homeless patrons - but the operation will be run by the U.S. Military Sealift Command.
Carnival shares (NYSE) closed down 28 cents Friday to $48.24 on news refugees don't tip well.
The three ships will not be touring the Bahamas, but will instead be docked in breathtaking Mobile, Alabama. Carnival crews are expected to provide service for their homeless patrons - but the operation will be run by the U.S. Military Sealift Command.
Carnival shares (NYSE) closed down 28 cents Friday to $48.24 on news refugees don't tip well.
POINTS OF VIEW
And then there's always the point of view that poverty is a policy decision. This gentleman articulates his point rather well in implicating the local government for creating a mess it couldn't clean up.
http://www.nydailynews.com/front/story/343324p-292991c.html
http://www.nydailynews.com/front/story/343324p-292991c.html
Saturday, September 03, 2005
NOTICE TO LOOTERS
No - I'm not going to shoot you. I've just got some neighborly notes to share.
You're doing it all wrong! Apparel and electronics are valuable goods, but they're far too difficult to carry around. Here's a tip: ATM machines.
They're everywhere, and they're loaded with cash. Let's not forget - wet cash is still cash. Every bar has one. Every mall has several. Every street corner. Every gas station. Every bank. Every convenience mart. There are thousands of ATMs all over that city and they're just bursting with big bills. If you're going to steal shit so you've got something to start over with, why not start with American green? It's lightweight and more accepted than Visa.
Here's the idea. You're going to need some help with this - but not too much because then you'll have to share the spoils. Now, if it's a free-standing unit, you'll want to drag it somewhere out of the way so camera crews don't catch you. The looting already looks bad enough without scenes of people cracking into ATM machines. That might be over the line for some folks, who've only dreamt of busting into one of those bad boys just to wrestle back some of those ridiculous transaction fees. By design, these money dispensers aren't easy to breach, so getting inside is going to take some elbow grease. Secure a heavy metal instrument of some kind from the many debris piles at your disposal and give it hell. Experiment with different pokes and swings in different places. Feel around the edges for weak seams. Knock on the casing to see where it is hollow, then drop a heavy chunk of concrete on it. *
Sound like a plan?
Okay then - put down that armful of fall fashions from Saks Fifth Avenue and go get yourself some bills. You'll find it a whole lot easier to trade money for goods than goods for money. Fa shizzle.
* Please note that I do not personally endorse looting of any kind as it is against the law. I would never suggest people break the law just to feed their dying children. Huh? Sarcastic? No, not all.
You're doing it all wrong! Apparel and electronics are valuable goods, but they're far too difficult to carry around. Here's a tip: ATM machines.
They're everywhere, and they're loaded with cash. Let's not forget - wet cash is still cash. Every bar has one. Every mall has several. Every street corner. Every gas station. Every bank. Every convenience mart. There are thousands of ATMs all over that city and they're just bursting with big bills. If you're going to steal shit so you've got something to start over with, why not start with American green? It's lightweight and more accepted than Visa.
Here's the idea. You're going to need some help with this - but not too much because then you'll have to share the spoils. Now, if it's a free-standing unit, you'll want to drag it somewhere out of the way so camera crews don't catch you. The looting already looks bad enough without scenes of people cracking into ATM machines. That might be over the line for some folks, who've only dreamt of busting into one of those bad boys just to wrestle back some of those ridiculous transaction fees. By design, these money dispensers aren't easy to breach, so getting inside is going to take some elbow grease. Secure a heavy metal instrument of some kind from the many debris piles at your disposal and give it hell. Experiment with different pokes and swings in different places. Feel around the edges for weak seams. Knock on the casing to see where it is hollow, then drop a heavy chunk of concrete on it. *
Sound like a plan?
Okay then - put down that armful of fall fashions from Saks Fifth Avenue and go get yourself some bills. You'll find it a whole lot easier to trade money for goods than goods for money. Fa shizzle.
* Please note that I do not personally endorse looting of any kind as it is against the law. I would never suggest people break the law just to feed their dying children. Huh? Sarcastic? No, not all.
Friday, September 02, 2005
MESSAGE IN A BROKEN BOTTLE
The other day I rambled on about the plight of those stranded in New Orleans and stopped just short of universally justifying the pillaging that’s going on down there. The context of the situation continues to play a huge role in the behavior we’ve been witnessing day after heartbreaking day. For more on the power of context, I recommend Malcolm Gladwell’s book, The Tipping Point. He discusses how small changes in environment can have an enormous influence on attitudes and behavior. Then try to imagine the impact MASSIVE changes in environment might have.
Watching the television reports, I’ve noticed a lot of blame being passed around like a bowl of beets at the Thanksgiving table. Everyone’s willing to dish it out, but nobody wants that shit on their plate. There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned tragedy to bring out the “not my fault” in people. Remember 9/11? Same story there – everybody rushed to blame somebody else. The government. The “authorities.” The border patrol. The president. Airline security. The Koran. International policy. The CIA. The list goes on and on. How has the absolution of all wrongdoing become so central to our existence as sentient beings? What’s so hard about admitting we made a mistake? I just can’t imagine it – but then, I’ve never made one. And neither have you, right? *wink*
Leggo my ego!
While well-intended folks are busy pointing fingers, frustration swells like the salty Gulf. Does it really matter who’s to blame when babies are dying on a bed of asphalt, children are being raped, and the people sent in to rescue them are being shot at?
Here’s an article I found at blacknews.com discussing George Bush’s handling of poverty as a major cause for the turmoil down south. Poverty is no one administration’s fault – but certainly a scourge worth addressing. The push against Bush is a stretch, but some of the more salient facts cannot be ignored. (http://www.blacknews.com/pr/looting101.html)
For example, one of New Orleans’ dirty little secrets is that nearly a third of the population lived at or below the poverty level. Yes, that IS a lot. The national average is 12.7%. Some politicians, including members of the National Black Caucus, have defaulted to the race card. It was only a matter of time, I suppose, as it would be impossible to ignore the fact that nearly all of the people stranded – at least visibly – are African American. I must admit, it forced me to wonder: Where are all the poor WHITE people? Were they shuttled out of the city in a massive evacuation operation? Doubtful. Were poor white people somehow better able to leave town…or were they simply more willing? Is there more to the cultural welfare dependency argument than we would like to believe, or is simply asking the question inherently racist? I have a hard time stomaching the notion that these people have been abandoned BECAUSE they are black. Yet that’s what’s been suggested by a number of high-profile public figures and servants.
It’s an argument, I believe, born of emotion. Looking at it rationally, I’d say local authorities definitely dropped the ball here. How can you tell a population so poor and so large it must leave an area in so short a window of time…without at the very least providing it with SOME means to do so? Not even the writers of the X-Files could have dreamt up a scheme to transport a crowd that size overnight. How do you tell all these people they have to leave town without providing access to transportation of some kind? Were they supposed to just start walking? How did they, or anyone else for that matter, know it was going to go down like this? If Nostradamus didn’t predict it, how the hell were a bunch of armchair weathermen down in the bayou supposed to?
There are a lot of factors at play in this disaster, the most influential of all, perhaps, being the fact that no one EXPECTED this to happen. On the family tree of psychological awareness, Expectations are the mother of Disappointment, and the wicked stepmother to Ruin. More on expectation to come…
This brings me to a final point on responsibility, which I hope to make without pointing fingers. Pointing fingers, after all, is rude. After the storm surge exceeded everyone’s expectations. After the levees broke and pumps failed. After the bridges snapped and the roads were blocked. After the power and plumbing failed. After everything that could have possibly gone wrong went wrong, there were still people left in the city. Whose responsibility is it to get those people out?
My first thought was that, ultimately, we as individuals have to be responsible for ourselves. What do refugees in other countries do when faced with catastrophes of this magnitude? Genocide. Famine. Tsunami. They walk. They move. It’s not pretty, but they get on the road and they seek higher ground. They seek shelter. They seek food. Why didn’t that happen here? Or did it?
Thousands of people sought refuge in the Louisiana Superdome and the Convention Center EXPECTING they would be clothed, fed, nursed, and protected. By who? The government? Which government? The local government? The state government? The federal government? But government isn’t an actionable entity in itself. It’s not an omniscient caregiver capable of kissing our wounds to make them feel better. Government is run by people – people who left town because there was a hurricane coming. Some might argue that there simply wasn’t anyone left to help.
That being said, there are a lot of things that could have been done after the fact that weren’t. Those still stranded down there need a lot of things – but at the very LEAST, what they need is information. Information. Information. Expectations are managed through communication. There’s been zero communication down there. How can we blame these people for being angry? They don’t see the news every night like we do. They can’t comprehend the challenges. They don’t realize the extent of the destruction. All they know is they’re hungry, homeless, and running out of time. At what point do you say “fuck this” and start walking?
Anger always precedes acceptance. If these people were just a click away from up-to-the minute updates and information like you and I are, maybe they’d be more accepting of the situation. Maybe then they’d be able to get past the fury that drains them. It takes a lot of energy being angry. What is the function of government? Is it to provide safety for people? Is it to attend to the welfare of each and every citizen? Is it to provide medical care? Is it to provide food? There’s a lot of room for debate here – I’m just asking the questions.
My solution? It’s tongue-in-cheek, but you would expect no more (or less) from me. Get Donald Trump in charge and run this evacuation like an episode of the Apprentice. We need some highly motivated people with can-do attitudes and out-of-the-bowl ideas in charge so something gets done. How long would it take to type up some informational leaflets and airdrop them over those crowds? A few hours?
Think about how far a little information would go. Tell them what we already know and take for granted. Give them instructions – something constructive to do. They need direction. Right now there’s a mob with no direction, no information, and dwindling hope. Of course they’re going to be angry. Expectations have not been properly managed, and it’s resulted in utter mayhem.
They need to know what the plan is. They need to know what the timeline is. They need to know that women, children, sick, and elderly are going first. They need to know where they are going and what will be waiting for them there. They need to know that New Orleans will be off limits for at least 2 months and possibly 2 years. They need information like this to quell the anxiety that’s got them bursting at the seams.
They’ve been sending out an S.O.S. for almost a week now. Will someone please let them know that someone got their message in a bottle?
Watching the television reports, I’ve noticed a lot of blame being passed around like a bowl of beets at the Thanksgiving table. Everyone’s willing to dish it out, but nobody wants that shit on their plate. There’s nothing like a good old-fashioned tragedy to bring out the “not my fault” in people. Remember 9/11? Same story there – everybody rushed to blame somebody else. The government. The “authorities.” The border patrol. The president. Airline security. The Koran. International policy. The CIA. The list goes on and on. How has the absolution of all wrongdoing become so central to our existence as sentient beings? What’s so hard about admitting we made a mistake? I just can’t imagine it – but then, I’ve never made one. And neither have you, right? *wink*
Leggo my ego!
While well-intended folks are busy pointing fingers, frustration swells like the salty Gulf. Does it really matter who’s to blame when babies are dying on a bed of asphalt, children are being raped, and the people sent in to rescue them are being shot at?
Here’s an article I found at blacknews.com discussing George Bush’s handling of poverty as a major cause for the turmoil down south. Poverty is no one administration’s fault – but certainly a scourge worth addressing. The push against Bush is a stretch, but some of the more salient facts cannot be ignored. (http://www.blacknews.com/pr/looting101.html)
For example, one of New Orleans’ dirty little secrets is that nearly a third of the population lived at or below the poverty level. Yes, that IS a lot. The national average is 12.7%. Some politicians, including members of the National Black Caucus, have defaulted to the race card. It was only a matter of time, I suppose, as it would be impossible to ignore the fact that nearly all of the people stranded – at least visibly – are African American. I must admit, it forced me to wonder: Where are all the poor WHITE people? Were they shuttled out of the city in a massive evacuation operation? Doubtful. Were poor white people somehow better able to leave town…or were they simply more willing? Is there more to the cultural welfare dependency argument than we would like to believe, or is simply asking the question inherently racist? I have a hard time stomaching the notion that these people have been abandoned BECAUSE they are black. Yet that’s what’s been suggested by a number of high-profile public figures and servants.
It’s an argument, I believe, born of emotion. Looking at it rationally, I’d say local authorities definitely dropped the ball here. How can you tell a population so poor and so large it must leave an area in so short a window of time…without at the very least providing it with SOME means to do so? Not even the writers of the X-Files could have dreamt up a scheme to transport a crowd that size overnight. How do you tell all these people they have to leave town without providing access to transportation of some kind? Were they supposed to just start walking? How did they, or anyone else for that matter, know it was going to go down like this? If Nostradamus didn’t predict it, how the hell were a bunch of armchair weathermen down in the bayou supposed to?
There are a lot of factors at play in this disaster, the most influential of all, perhaps, being the fact that no one EXPECTED this to happen. On the family tree of psychological awareness, Expectations are the mother of Disappointment, and the wicked stepmother to Ruin. More on expectation to come…
This brings me to a final point on responsibility, which I hope to make without pointing fingers. Pointing fingers, after all, is rude. After the storm surge exceeded everyone’s expectations. After the levees broke and pumps failed. After the bridges snapped and the roads were blocked. After the power and plumbing failed. After everything that could have possibly gone wrong went wrong, there were still people left in the city. Whose responsibility is it to get those people out?
My first thought was that, ultimately, we as individuals have to be responsible for ourselves. What do refugees in other countries do when faced with catastrophes of this magnitude? Genocide. Famine. Tsunami. They walk. They move. It’s not pretty, but they get on the road and they seek higher ground. They seek shelter. They seek food. Why didn’t that happen here? Or did it?
Thousands of people sought refuge in the Louisiana Superdome and the Convention Center EXPECTING they would be clothed, fed, nursed, and protected. By who? The government? Which government? The local government? The state government? The federal government? But government isn’t an actionable entity in itself. It’s not an omniscient caregiver capable of kissing our wounds to make them feel better. Government is run by people – people who left town because there was a hurricane coming. Some might argue that there simply wasn’t anyone left to help.
That being said, there are a lot of things that could have been done after the fact that weren’t. Those still stranded down there need a lot of things – but at the very LEAST, what they need is information. Information. Information. Expectations are managed through communication. There’s been zero communication down there. How can we blame these people for being angry? They don’t see the news every night like we do. They can’t comprehend the challenges. They don’t realize the extent of the destruction. All they know is they’re hungry, homeless, and running out of time. At what point do you say “fuck this” and start walking?
Anger always precedes acceptance. If these people were just a click away from up-to-the minute updates and information like you and I are, maybe they’d be more accepting of the situation. Maybe then they’d be able to get past the fury that drains them. It takes a lot of energy being angry. What is the function of government? Is it to provide safety for people? Is it to attend to the welfare of each and every citizen? Is it to provide medical care? Is it to provide food? There’s a lot of room for debate here – I’m just asking the questions.
My solution? It’s tongue-in-cheek, but you would expect no more (or less) from me. Get Donald Trump in charge and run this evacuation like an episode of the Apprentice. We need some highly motivated people with can-do attitudes and out-of-the-bowl ideas in charge so something gets done. How long would it take to type up some informational leaflets and airdrop them over those crowds? A few hours?
Think about how far a little information would go. Tell them what we already know and take for granted. Give them instructions – something constructive to do. They need direction. Right now there’s a mob with no direction, no information, and dwindling hope. Of course they’re going to be angry. Expectations have not been properly managed, and it’s resulted in utter mayhem.
They need to know what the plan is. They need to know what the timeline is. They need to know that women, children, sick, and elderly are going first. They need to know where they are going and what will be waiting for them there. They need to know that New Orleans will be off limits for at least 2 months and possibly 2 years. They need information like this to quell the anxiety that’s got them bursting at the seams.
They’ve been sending out an S.O.S. for almost a week now. Will someone please let them know that someone got their message in a bottle?
Thursday, September 01, 2005
JUMP TO LIGHTSPEED!
So...just how fast is your internet connection? Maybe not as fast as you think.
Maybe faster.
Click on the header to find out. Don't be a baby - do it!
Might be time for broadband...
http://www.internetfrog.com/mypc/speedtest/
(Thanks, Peter)
Maybe faster.
Click on the header to find out. Don't be a baby - do it!
Might be time for broadband...
http://www.internetfrog.com/mypc/speedtest/
(Thanks, Peter)
PAIN IN THE GAS
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
SURREALITY TELEVISION
By now we’ve all seen the pictures. Rooftops that appear to be floating on a bed of chocolate soup. Emergency rescue teams hammering though shingles to reach people trapped in attics. Hundreds of homeless wading through the canals of downtown New Orleans with pilfered goods. How can we even begin to imagine, from the dry comfort of our modest homes, what these people are going through?
Hurricane Katrina turned out to be even worse than expected. It is now officially the single worst natural disaster to ever hit the United States. Worse than any other storm, earthquake, drought, or wildfire outbreak. There’s no electricity. There’s no plumbing. There’s no way in or out of town in some areas. As was feared, it has proven a disaster of Biblical proportions. The entire region has been rendered inhabitable. And the water is still RISING. Hundreds of thousands of displaced people with absolutely nothing left and nowhere to go. How does a group of people this large sustain itself? They have nothing. What do they eat? When your slate is wiped clean, how do you just begin again? They need help – lots of it, and fast. At what point do we stop sending prayers and start sending money?
Survivors are finding they are not alone. There are alligators, snakes, bugs, and rats – all trying to survive in the aftermath. What had been a teeming metropolis on the gulf, attractive tourist destination, and historic hot spot has become a murky modern-day Atlantis.
So where are these people going to go for now? They can’t stay in the Superdome. Many are being shipped to Houston in buses. According to one AP report, someone even had the stroke of genius to suggest bringing in cruise ships – those massive, man-made islands of floating decadence. Only now they’ll be used to house American refugees. Think about how strange THAT sounds to say: American refugees. At least there the homeless will have a place to sleep. At least there they can be safe from infection and wildlife. At least there relief missions can dispense food and water. At least there people can be accounted for. But for how long? And then what?
Meanwhile, in the streets, there is widespread looting. And they’re not just taking the essentials. They’re stealing shit they’ll never be able to use. Plasma televisions they can’t watch. Computers they can’t surf the web on. Compact Discs they can’t listen to. One of my co-workers today suggested, and not in jest, that looters be shot on sight.
“Looting?” she responded to a television report, “I don’t care how they want to soften it – it’s stealing. They ought to just shoot these people.”
I asked her to imagine for one moment standing in the middle of a city underwater. There’s no tomorrow or next week when you’re wading hip deep in sewage, surrounded by wildlife, with nothing to eat, no place to go, and no information. These people aren’t thinking about what they’re doing. They’re in survival mode. They’re not thinking about what they’re taking. It’s complete anarchy down there – and in a state of anarchy, you grab anything that has any value at all – the standard currency of chaos. A stolen DVD player is worth something to someone somewhere…better to have that than nothing at all.
I agreed with her that stealing is not right. But there’s a big difference between the opportunistic window smashers who take to the streets during protests and demonstrations, and the thousands of displaced souls paddling through the canals of the Crescent City. The difference is in context. In one situation you have people stealing to steal. In the other you have people foraging to live. I imagine some of the looters are simply up to no good – profiteers perhaps, hoping to score valuable consumer goods and electronics for resale on the black market. But let’s not ignore the life-threatening context of the situation. Faced with the same horrific conditions, you and I might resort to the very same behavior.
Whose cars are these? And why are they still here? Submerged evidence that no one expected the levees would break, the pumps would fail, and the geographical bowl to fill with swamp.
One official in Louisiana articulated an important point. The people who are in New Orleans right now aren’t there because they WANT to be there. They’re there because they’re stuck there. Trapped. Take a good look at the people who couldn’t get out. The poor. The unemployed. The people who had it rough to begin with. Many didn’t have the resources to just pick up and go. They didn’t have any disposable cash. They didn’t have cars. They were forced to hope for the best, and the lucky ones lived through the nightmare of Katrina – only to find it is a recurring one, fraught with dangers we can only imagine. Wait until the waters recede and the breadth of the graveyard is revealed. It is now estimated thousands may have died – many drowning in their own attics. A suffocating fate as surreal as it is horrifying.
80% of New Orleans is now underwater – as much as 20 feet in places. This is not a rural area we’re talking about – this is a massive city home to nearly half a million people. Our very own tsunami, minus the global outpouring of support. Many believe its time to recall resources from our War on Terror so we can declare a War on Water.
Now is a good time to go through my closet and find the clothes I haven’t worn in a long time. Hundreds of thousands of people could use them.
Hurricane Katrina turned out to be even worse than expected. It is now officially the single worst natural disaster to ever hit the United States. Worse than any other storm, earthquake, drought, or wildfire outbreak. There’s no electricity. There’s no plumbing. There’s no way in or out of town in some areas. As was feared, it has proven a disaster of Biblical proportions. The entire region has been rendered inhabitable. And the water is still RISING. Hundreds of thousands of displaced people with absolutely nothing left and nowhere to go. How does a group of people this large sustain itself? They have nothing. What do they eat? When your slate is wiped clean, how do you just begin again? They need help – lots of it, and fast. At what point do we stop sending prayers and start sending money?
Survivors are finding they are not alone. There are alligators, snakes, bugs, and rats – all trying to survive in the aftermath. What had been a teeming metropolis on the gulf, attractive tourist destination, and historic hot spot has become a murky modern-day Atlantis.
So where are these people going to go for now? They can’t stay in the Superdome. Many are being shipped to Houston in buses. According to one AP report, someone even had the stroke of genius to suggest bringing in cruise ships – those massive, man-made islands of floating decadence. Only now they’ll be used to house American refugees. Think about how strange THAT sounds to say: American refugees. At least there the homeless will have a place to sleep. At least there they can be safe from infection and wildlife. At least there relief missions can dispense food and water. At least there people can be accounted for. But for how long? And then what?
Meanwhile, in the streets, there is widespread looting. And they’re not just taking the essentials. They’re stealing shit they’ll never be able to use. Plasma televisions they can’t watch. Computers they can’t surf the web on. Compact Discs they can’t listen to. One of my co-workers today suggested, and not in jest, that looters be shot on sight.
“Looting?” she responded to a television report, “I don’t care how they want to soften it – it’s stealing. They ought to just shoot these people.”
I asked her to imagine for one moment standing in the middle of a city underwater. There’s no tomorrow or next week when you’re wading hip deep in sewage, surrounded by wildlife, with nothing to eat, no place to go, and no information. These people aren’t thinking about what they’re doing. They’re in survival mode. They’re not thinking about what they’re taking. It’s complete anarchy down there – and in a state of anarchy, you grab anything that has any value at all – the standard currency of chaos. A stolen DVD player is worth something to someone somewhere…better to have that than nothing at all.
I agreed with her that stealing is not right. But there’s a big difference between the opportunistic window smashers who take to the streets during protests and demonstrations, and the thousands of displaced souls paddling through the canals of the Crescent City. The difference is in context. In one situation you have people stealing to steal. In the other you have people foraging to live. I imagine some of the looters are simply up to no good – profiteers perhaps, hoping to score valuable consumer goods and electronics for resale on the black market. But let’s not ignore the life-threatening context of the situation. Faced with the same horrific conditions, you and I might resort to the very same behavior.
Whose cars are these? And why are they still here? Submerged evidence that no one expected the levees would break, the pumps would fail, and the geographical bowl to fill with swamp.
One official in Louisiana articulated an important point. The people who are in New Orleans right now aren’t there because they WANT to be there. They’re there because they’re stuck there. Trapped. Take a good look at the people who couldn’t get out. The poor. The unemployed. The people who had it rough to begin with. Many didn’t have the resources to just pick up and go. They didn’t have any disposable cash. They didn’t have cars. They were forced to hope for the best, and the lucky ones lived through the nightmare of Katrina – only to find it is a recurring one, fraught with dangers we can only imagine. Wait until the waters recede and the breadth of the graveyard is revealed. It is now estimated thousands may have died – many drowning in their own attics. A suffocating fate as surreal as it is horrifying.
80% of New Orleans is now underwater – as much as 20 feet in places. This is not a rural area we’re talking about – this is a massive city home to nearly half a million people. Our very own tsunami, minus the global outpouring of support. Many believe its time to recall resources from our War on Terror so we can declare a War on Water.
Now is a good time to go through my closet and find the clothes I haven’t worn in a long time. Hundreds of thousands of people could use them.
EXTRA CREDIT: READ ALL ABOUT IT
Here's some more credit news you can use. As you may have heard, all Americans are now entitled to one free credit report from each of the three major credit bureaus each year. This is a great way for you to find out if your list of obligations is naughty or nice.
All of your creditors will be listed there, along with details about every one of your outstanding debts. House, car, student loans, credit card bills, etc. If you've got lines of credit open you forgot about, they're on there. If you've missed payments, they're on there. Limits. Payments. Dates. Everything. And not all of it is correct, I should warn you.
It's YOUR credit history - shouldn't YOU have a copy?
It's FREE.
https://www.annualcreditreport.com/cra/index.jsp
All of your creditors will be listed there, along with details about every one of your outstanding debts. House, car, student loans, credit card bills, etc. If you've got lines of credit open you forgot about, they're on there. If you've missed payments, they're on there. Limits. Payments. Dates. Everything. And not all of it is correct, I should warn you.
It's YOUR credit history - shouldn't YOU have a copy?
It's FREE.
https://www.annualcreditreport.com/cra/index.jsp
FREEDOM FIGHTERS
We’ve all heard that free speech in America is not absolute. For example, you just can’t scream “Fire!” in a crowded movie theater. Not unless it’s actually burning, that is. Then feel free to go as nuts as you please. This shocking news story illustrates why there are limitations on what you can say.
Any other week, this story would likely have been all over the headlines. But Katrina, understandably, has dominated our media – so a lot of people won’t hear that nearly 700 Iraqis died in a stampede today. Yes, a stampede. Not your ordinary, everyday stampede of frightened livestock. Not a stampede of horses or camels…or even a stampede for fun – like the ones they throw in Spain every year for the criminally stupid.
This was a stampede of people.
Massive crowds had gathered to attend a religious ceremony at the Kadhimiya mosque in an old district of Baghdad when someone shouted that there was a suicide bomber in their midst. Panic ensued, and hundreds of people began scrambling in every direction, funneling to safety over a nearby bridge. Many threw themselves off the bridge. Many others were crushed underfoot by the frenzied mob. A majority of the victims were said to be women, children, and elderly.
The death toll has been listed at 700, but is climbing and expected to reach 1,000. Can you even imagine a thousand dead bodies, crushed and trampled by a wave of terrified church-goers? Just when you think they’re making some progress over there, some idiot screams “Suicide Bomber!” near a crowded mosque and 700 people are instantly no longer. Restoring the peace over there has proven nearly as futile as opening a ketchup packet with greasy fingers.
I personally find it extremely ironic that so much death can result from the very freedoms we struggle to support: Freedom of assembly. Freedom of worship. Freedom of speech. In this case, a deadly combination.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take some scissors to this ketchup packet.
Any other week, this story would likely have been all over the headlines. But Katrina, understandably, has dominated our media – so a lot of people won’t hear that nearly 700 Iraqis died in a stampede today. Yes, a stampede. Not your ordinary, everyday stampede of frightened livestock. Not a stampede of horses or camels…or even a stampede for fun – like the ones they throw in Spain every year for the criminally stupid.
This was a stampede of people.
Massive crowds had gathered to attend a religious ceremony at the Kadhimiya mosque in an old district of Baghdad when someone shouted that there was a suicide bomber in their midst. Panic ensued, and hundreds of people began scrambling in every direction, funneling to safety over a nearby bridge. Many threw themselves off the bridge. Many others were crushed underfoot by the frenzied mob. A majority of the victims were said to be women, children, and elderly.
The death toll has been listed at 700, but is climbing and expected to reach 1,000. Can you even imagine a thousand dead bodies, crushed and trampled by a wave of terrified church-goers? Just when you think they’re making some progress over there, some idiot screams “Suicide Bomber!” near a crowded mosque and 700 people are instantly no longer. Restoring the peace over there has proven nearly as futile as opening a ketchup packet with greasy fingers.
I personally find it extremely ironic that so much death can result from the very freedoms we struggle to support: Freedom of assembly. Freedom of worship. Freedom of speech. In this case, a deadly combination.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take some scissors to this ketchup packet.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
GREEN LIGHT, RED HERRING
LICKING AN OLD HABIT
Funny how little things can drive people nuts.
For example, I have the particularly unrefined habit of leaving my coffee spoon in my coffee mug. When I make coffee at home, it's usually instant. I really don't have the patience for anything else - even waiting 2 minutes for the microwave to boil my water seems like a small eternity some mornings.
Once the water is scalding hot, I'll add the crystals with a teaspoon, dump in a little sugar, add a little milk, stir it all up, then drink it down. But for some reason, I don't take the spoon out of the mug. I actually sip it slowly with a shiny stem of silverware inches from my eyeball. For no apparent reason other than habit.
Geri informed me recently that this unseemly practice gives her the heebie-jeebies, and she asked if it were within my capability to remove the stirring utensil from my ceramic caffeine transport before bringing the handled helper to my lips. No problem, I said. And I haven't left a spoon in my coffee since.
It is with this recent example of voluntary behavior modification in mind that I formally make the following request of the thousands upon thousands of people around whom I will be spending the remainder of my life. It's a very simple thing, really, that has the potential to spare me countless bouts of spontaneous nausea over the course of my life.
Would you please - PLEASE - try to find a way to turn the page without licking your fingers? That's all I ask. I know it's possible because I've been doing it my entire life. I thank you in advance, as does your immune system.
For example, I have the particularly unrefined habit of leaving my coffee spoon in my coffee mug. When I make coffee at home, it's usually instant. I really don't have the patience for anything else - even waiting 2 minutes for the microwave to boil my water seems like a small eternity some mornings.
Once the water is scalding hot, I'll add the crystals with a teaspoon, dump in a little sugar, add a little milk, stir it all up, then drink it down. But for some reason, I don't take the spoon out of the mug. I actually sip it slowly with a shiny stem of silverware inches from my eyeball. For no apparent reason other than habit.
Geri informed me recently that this unseemly practice gives her the heebie-jeebies, and she asked if it were within my capability to remove the stirring utensil from my ceramic caffeine transport before bringing the handled helper to my lips. No problem, I said. And I haven't left a spoon in my coffee since.
It is with this recent example of voluntary behavior modification in mind that I formally make the following request of the thousands upon thousands of people around whom I will be spending the remainder of my life. It's a very simple thing, really, that has the potential to spare me countless bouts of spontaneous nausea over the course of my life.
Would you please - PLEASE - try to find a way to turn the page without licking your fingers? That's all I ask. I know it's possible because I've been doing it my entire life. I thank you in advance, as does your immune system.
Monday, August 29, 2005
STRATEGIES FOR LIFE
Here's a link to help you cope with all of that workplace frustration you keep bottled up inside.
http://www.zefrank.com/punc/
http://www.zefrank.com/punc/
"YOUR CALL IS IMPORTANT TO US..."
This is a true story I know you’re going to love. LaChania Govan is a 25-year-old mother of two who was having problems with her cable service. So she called Comcast to complain – not just once, but over and over again. As is policy, she was put on hold, disconnected, or transferred to the Spanish language line – over and over again. (No, LaChania no habla espanol)
Sound familiar? Who among us hasn’t had this experience with a utility company at some point? Funny how customer SERVICE isn’t a strong suit of “service” providers. But I digress.
Despite her frustrating experience with Comcast’s customer service line, LaChania remained determined to get the service she deserved. As problems with her digital recording system continued, she made dozens of calls to Comcast. Yeah – DOZENS. For the mathematically disinclined, that’s at least 24 (and likely many, many more) She made so many calls, in fact, that when her August bill arrived in the mail, the name on the address panel had been changed to read: “Bitch Dog.”
Upon receiving her bill, LaChania immediately called Comcast to cancel service. When the operator asked for her name, she responded, “You really don't want me to go there.” After all, she was only known as “Bitch Dog” in their system.
Comcast has since admitted it is aware of the incident, and said that the bogus name change was authentic. The vice president of communications had this to say: “If this is not that customer’s name, it shouldn't be on that bill.” What an enlightening position to take! Only people who go by the name of “Bitch Dog” should receive statements with the words “Bitch Dog” on the address panel. How politically correct.
Comcast has since said it should be able to track who made the change…so somebody is in BIG trouble. Gotta love the brass, though, eh? Just to be fair, I think it’s safe to assume LaChania was not the most pleasant person to speak with after that 18th call or so. I imagine she probably had some abusive things to say to the person on the other end of the line (which she denies, I should add). I know *I* would have some pretty mean-spirited things to say if my cable went out and I couldn’t get a hold of somebody. That certainly doesn’t excuse the behavior of whoever keyed the words “Bitch Dog” into the billing system – but I can understand why they did it. I just hope the creative employee had the foresight to change more than just one name. If you’re going to get fired for being a jerk off, you may as well go all out.
Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. According to Martin Cohen, executive director of the Citizens Utility Board of Illinois, there was another case like it involving a Peoples Energy (Gas) customer. In that case, Jeffery Barnes of Maywood received four pieces of mail that included the words “scrotum bag” in the line with his name. Unfortunately, I have no hard estimate on how many phone calls you have to make to graduate from Bitch Dog to Scrotum Bag. That's an experiment you'll have to conduct on your own time.
Sound familiar? Who among us hasn’t had this experience with a utility company at some point? Funny how customer SERVICE isn’t a strong suit of “service” providers. But I digress.
Despite her frustrating experience with Comcast’s customer service line, LaChania remained determined to get the service she deserved. As problems with her digital recording system continued, she made dozens of calls to Comcast. Yeah – DOZENS. For the mathematically disinclined, that’s at least 24 (and likely many, many more) She made so many calls, in fact, that when her August bill arrived in the mail, the name on the address panel had been changed to read: “Bitch Dog.”
Upon receiving her bill, LaChania immediately called Comcast to cancel service. When the operator asked for her name, she responded, “You really don't want me to go there.” After all, she was only known as “Bitch Dog” in their system.
Comcast has since admitted it is aware of the incident, and said that the bogus name change was authentic. The vice president of communications had this to say: “If this is not that customer’s name, it shouldn't be on that bill.” What an enlightening position to take! Only people who go by the name of “Bitch Dog” should receive statements with the words “Bitch Dog” on the address panel. How politically correct.
Comcast has since said it should be able to track who made the change…so somebody is in BIG trouble. Gotta love the brass, though, eh? Just to be fair, I think it’s safe to assume LaChania was not the most pleasant person to speak with after that 18th call or so. I imagine she probably had some abusive things to say to the person on the other end of the line (which she denies, I should add). I know *I* would have some pretty mean-spirited things to say if my cable went out and I couldn’t get a hold of somebody. That certainly doesn’t excuse the behavior of whoever keyed the words “Bitch Dog” into the billing system – but I can understand why they did it. I just hope the creative employee had the foresight to change more than just one name. If you’re going to get fired for being a jerk off, you may as well go all out.
Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. According to Martin Cohen, executive director of the Citizens Utility Board of Illinois, there was another case like it involving a Peoples Energy (Gas) customer. In that case, Jeffery Barnes of Maywood received four pieces of mail that included the words “scrotum bag” in the line with his name. Unfortunately, I have no hard estimate on how many phone calls you have to make to graduate from Bitch Dog to Scrotum Bag. That's an experiment you'll have to conduct on your own time.
THE BIG BREEZY
I woke up this morning and found out they’re having a little rain down in N’awlins. Where have I been? Wrapped up in my own world, as usual. Too busy enjoying the beautiful weather up here in Chicago to pay attention to the horror of Hurricane Katrina. Experts are saying this storm could be a nightmare disaster of Biblical proportions, with parts of the city under 30 feet of water. Can you even imagine that? Think about how deep just 4 feet of water would be in your living room. You'd be swimming up to your armpits in filth and your furniture would be floating like ice cubes in murky brown tea. Now imagine 30 feet. Just think of the mildew afterward. Stanley Steemer better get the fleet mobilized.
What makes this storm particularly dangerous is that the city of New Orleans sits on a coastal wetland. It’s basically a city in a swamp. There’s really not a whole lot of room left for more water. So meteorologists have been warning for years that a Category 5 hurricane (the strongest) could level the Big Easy and leave a million people homeless. As of this morning, Katrina was a Category 4 packing winds of 145MPH.
New Orleans has a bunch of levees and pumps designed to keep the city dry. But these measures are futile against a raging force like this one. In fact, as the pumps fail and waters rise, there is fear of widespread contamination, including toxic chemicals, human waste, and floating coffins. It almost sounds like a horror movie – but it’s a very real possibility. Some estimates predict 60%-80% of the city’s houses could be destroyed by wind. And I can’t help but wonder…is God cleaning house? Anyone who’s experienced the madness of Mardi Gras sober (as I have) knows just how filthy it was. Urinating. Vomiting. Fighting. Sex acts. Some would say that city needed a good shower.
And now we all wait to see what will be left, if anything, of the Big Breezy and its historic Drench Quarter.
Wait until this poor bastard comes back and realizes he left his lights on.
What makes this storm particularly dangerous is that the city of New Orleans sits on a coastal wetland. It’s basically a city in a swamp. There’s really not a whole lot of room left for more water. So meteorologists have been warning for years that a Category 5 hurricane (the strongest) could level the Big Easy and leave a million people homeless. As of this morning, Katrina was a Category 4 packing winds of 145MPH.
New Orleans has a bunch of levees and pumps designed to keep the city dry. But these measures are futile against a raging force like this one. In fact, as the pumps fail and waters rise, there is fear of widespread contamination, including toxic chemicals, human waste, and floating coffins. It almost sounds like a horror movie – but it’s a very real possibility. Some estimates predict 60%-80% of the city’s houses could be destroyed by wind. And I can’t help but wonder…is God cleaning house? Anyone who’s experienced the madness of Mardi Gras sober (as I have) knows just how filthy it was. Urinating. Vomiting. Fighting. Sex acts. Some would say that city needed a good shower.
And now we all wait to see what will be left, if anything, of the Big Breezy and its historic Drench Quarter.
Wait until this poor bastard comes back and realizes he left his lights on.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
NO RELIEF IN SPITE
I was pissed this morning. Gas in my neighborhood has climbed to $3.09 a gallon. And that's the CHEAP shit. THREE FUCKING DOLLARS AND NINE CENTS for a single gallon of gas. Will it make me drive less? Hell the fuck no. And to prove it, I drove around the block 4 times out of spite. They won't stop ME from driving, dammit. No way.
Some analysts say that increased demand for oil in surging economies like China's is driving up the price. Others point to constant instability in the MIddle East as the reason prices keep edging upward. I say it's something else. Instead of blaming external factors, I'm going to point the finger at me. It's MY willingness to pay whatever the hell they post on that plastic back-lit price board that keeps the price climbing. I learned that back when I was 14 years old. It's called the law of supply and demand. When demand is high, prices climb. Pretty basic principle, really. About as basic as Economic Theory gets. The astronomical rise in gas prices, while frustrating, has not dissuaded enough Americans, myself included, to modify driving habits accordingly. If demand were to fall off, the price of gas would stop rising. So what we have here is evidence of an economy that is so dependent on oil - FOREIGN oil, I should add - it simply cannot combat rising gas prices with a decrease in gas usage. Instead, we force ourselves to make cuts in other areas. I can do without cheese on my Whopper, but I can't drive without gas in my tank.
They'll keep jacking those prices sky high. And we'll keep paying them because we have to. We need to. Our way of life demands that we get from one place to another quite often. And nearly all modes of modern transportation - from the massive distribution network of semi-truck trailers to airline travel to public buses to our own personal pods of necessity and luxury - require oil. What are we going to do? Stop going to work?
I'm not backing down from high gas prices. I'm going to show those bastards by driving around my block over and over and over again. Yeah. That'll make me feel better. And when I'm done filling up for the third time I'm going to go make myself a grilled cheese sandwich - because that'll be about all I'll be able to afford with what I'll have left.
If gas prices get any higher, I'm going to start a campaign to bring back the horse. Yeah - just like the Wild West, baby. We can keep the paved streets and traffic stops and toll booths - but everybody will be cruising around on their own horse. Gas up with hay, my friends. Now that's what I'm talking about. Who's with me?
[CLICK ON HEADER FOR A LITTLE DITTY ON THE ESCALATING PRICE OF GAS - THANKS PETER!]
Some analysts say that increased demand for oil in surging economies like China's is driving up the price. Others point to constant instability in the MIddle East as the reason prices keep edging upward. I say it's something else. Instead of blaming external factors, I'm going to point the finger at me. It's MY willingness to pay whatever the hell they post on that plastic back-lit price board that keeps the price climbing. I learned that back when I was 14 years old. It's called the law of supply and demand. When demand is high, prices climb. Pretty basic principle, really. About as basic as Economic Theory gets. The astronomical rise in gas prices, while frustrating, has not dissuaded enough Americans, myself included, to modify driving habits accordingly. If demand were to fall off, the price of gas would stop rising. So what we have here is evidence of an economy that is so dependent on oil - FOREIGN oil, I should add - it simply cannot combat rising gas prices with a decrease in gas usage. Instead, we force ourselves to make cuts in other areas. I can do without cheese on my Whopper, but I can't drive without gas in my tank.
They'll keep jacking those prices sky high. And we'll keep paying them because we have to. We need to. Our way of life demands that we get from one place to another quite often. And nearly all modes of modern transportation - from the massive distribution network of semi-truck trailers to airline travel to public buses to our own personal pods of necessity and luxury - require oil. What are we going to do? Stop going to work?
I'm not backing down from high gas prices. I'm going to show those bastards by driving around my block over and over and over again. Yeah. That'll make me feel better. And when I'm done filling up for the third time I'm going to go make myself a grilled cheese sandwich - because that'll be about all I'll be able to afford with what I'll have left.
If gas prices get any higher, I'm going to start a campaign to bring back the horse. Yeah - just like the Wild West, baby. We can keep the paved streets and traffic stops and toll booths - but everybody will be cruising around on their own horse. Gas up with hay, my friends. Now that's what I'm talking about. Who's with me?
[CLICK ON HEADER FOR A LITTLE DITTY ON THE ESCALATING PRICE OF GAS - THANKS PETER!]
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
PICTURE SHOW
Here's a link you may have already seen. If not - enjoy!
http://grant.robinson.name/projects/montage-a-google/
You basically create your own montages out of images found through a simple Google search...all at the touch of a button. The more interesting (or benign!) the word, the more interesting the montage. I made a montage out of "poop." It was steaming hot. Then I did one for "kaleidoscope" and almost threw up.
A picture of Sammy Sosa came up when I made a montage for the word "crud."
A picture of George Bush came up with I made a montage for the word "lies."
A Korean infant came up when I made a montage for "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious"
Go nuts. Print them out. Laugh bewildered. Big fun for minutes on end.
http://grant.robinson.name/projects/montage-a-google/
You basically create your own montages out of images found through a simple Google search...all at the touch of a button. The more interesting (or benign!) the word, the more interesting the montage. I made a montage out of "poop." It was steaming hot. Then I did one for "kaleidoscope" and almost threw up.
A picture of Sammy Sosa came up when I made a montage for the word "crud."
A picture of George Bush came up with I made a montage for the word "lies."
A Korean infant came up when I made a montage for "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious"
Go nuts. Print them out. Laugh bewildered. Big fun for minutes on end.
I DON'T WANT ALL THE CREDIT
I recently decided to simplify my finances by moving some credit card balances and getting rid of some unused cards. It was going to feel great to finally close those accounts. And tearing up the plastic would be symbolic of my economic progress, as I scrape and claw my way back to black.
I found a new Capital One Mastercard offering me 0% on balance transfers for a year with no balance transfer fees and a fixed 4.9% APR after that. As someone who writes credit card solicitations for a living, I recognized this as a very good offer. I immediately moved balances off of two separate cards to take advantage. I then went and closed one of my other accounts – just to show them I was boss.
“I don’t need you anymore!” I thought triumphantly as I navigated my way through their exhausting tele-menu system for the last time.
Turns out that was a mistake.
I assumed removing that card and all of its unused credit from my name would be a smart move. But it wasn’t. If you have any debt at all, unused credit is actually a GOOD thing. The more, the better. That’s because a large part of your credit score is based on your ratio of outstanding debt to available credit. By canceling my unused card, I actually HURT my debt-to-available-credit ratio.
Fortunately, my new card afforded me an even larger credit limit than the one I canceled…so in the end I ended up improving my ratio slightly. But had I kept my original card, I would have had a much better debt-to-credit ratio, and would have preserved the 6 year relationship I’d had with the original lender – something else creditors look for in evaluating your history.
Too much credit isn't the red flag it used to be. In fact, it's really only an issue if you have more than 7 lines open at once. Then you may want to consider consolidating. Otherwise, getting rid of your unused credit cards isn’t necessarily a good idea. Keeping cards you’ve paid off is actually a SMART move – even if you never intend to use them again. Tear them up, stash them in your sock drawer, or hide them in a cookie jar – but keep that line open. Lenders consider you more economically viable when you have access to dough.
Want to know more about how these folks keep score? Go here:
http://www.fool.com/ccc/check/check02.htm
I found a new Capital One Mastercard offering me 0% on balance transfers for a year with no balance transfer fees and a fixed 4.9% APR after that. As someone who writes credit card solicitations for a living, I recognized this as a very good offer. I immediately moved balances off of two separate cards to take advantage. I then went and closed one of my other accounts – just to show them I was boss.
“I don’t need you anymore!” I thought triumphantly as I navigated my way through their exhausting tele-menu system for the last time.
Turns out that was a mistake.
I assumed removing that card and all of its unused credit from my name would be a smart move. But it wasn’t. If you have any debt at all, unused credit is actually a GOOD thing. The more, the better. That’s because a large part of your credit score is based on your ratio of outstanding debt to available credit. By canceling my unused card, I actually HURT my debt-to-available-credit ratio.
Fortunately, my new card afforded me an even larger credit limit than the one I canceled…so in the end I ended up improving my ratio slightly. But had I kept my original card, I would have had a much better debt-to-credit ratio, and would have preserved the 6 year relationship I’d had with the original lender – something else creditors look for in evaluating your history.
Too much credit isn't the red flag it used to be. In fact, it's really only an issue if you have more than 7 lines open at once. Then you may want to consider consolidating. Otherwise, getting rid of your unused credit cards isn’t necessarily a good idea. Keeping cards you’ve paid off is actually a SMART move – even if you never intend to use them again. Tear them up, stash them in your sock drawer, or hide them in a cookie jar – but keep that line open. Lenders consider you more economically viable when you have access to dough.
Want to know more about how these folks keep score? Go here:
http://www.fool.com/ccc/check/check02.htm
Monday, August 22, 2005
SMOKING MANNERS
A friend of mine sent me this link today. (click header)
His buddy just got back from Tokyo where he saw these public service announcements everywhere. Many of them read like poetry; most read like a children's book to me. I clicked on the first one and then paged through for an entertaining introduction to how to smoke with manners. The author was clearly passive aggressive. Plenty entertaining.
My friend thinks he could make a lot of money selling these as t-shirts. What do you think?
http://www.conbinibento.com/photos/index.php?gallery=./Smoking%20Manners
His buddy just got back from Tokyo where he saw these public service announcements everywhere. Many of them read like poetry; most read like a children's book to me. I clicked on the first one and then paged through for an entertaining introduction to how to smoke with manners. The author was clearly passive aggressive. Plenty entertaining.
My friend thinks he could make a lot of money selling these as t-shirts. What do you think?
http://www.conbinibento.com/photos/index.php?gallery=./Smoking%20Manners
Friday, August 19, 2005
THERE'S A NEW SHERIFF IN TOWN
This is some great shit.
There’s a Sheriff in Arizona by the name of Joe Arpaio who’s a real ball breaker. Just the kind of guy the law enforcement community needs. And thanks to his no-nonsense approach to corrections, he’s been re-elected over and over again by the justice-minded folks of the Grand Canyon State. You may have heard about him already. I only recently did, so I dug around a bit to verify he was the real deal. Oh - he's real alright. Check this out.
Sheriff Joe’s methods may sound a little unorthodox – but they’ve made him the most popular guy around. Well, except for at the Maricopa County Jail. That’s Joe's turf. And it’s there that Joe created something called “tent city” – an outdoor jail where inmates sleep on cots in tents, and wear PINK shorts and socks. He said inmates were stealing his prison-issued underwear, so he dyed them pink. It must really soften these folks up around the edges.
Sheriff Joe decided to feed his convicts bologna sandwiches to knock jail meals down to 40 cents a serving. An independent source actually estimates the meals cost just 20 cents. That saves the taxpayers in his state a lot of money. He also cut off all coffee because he says it has zero nutritional value. Joe is a certified dietician, too. Okay - maybe not...but it's still his fucking prison.
America's toughest sheriff also put an end to cigarettes and pornography. Because smoking stinks, and porn is a privilege. He also took away their weights. He must figure his inmates will be less of a menace to society if they’re not all built like linebackers when they get out. He cut off all but G-rated movies because everybody knows how movies can glorify violent behavior. So the only "Babe" HIS jailbirds get to feast their eyes on is the precocious pig.
That’ll do, Joe. That’ll do.
He then started chain gangs so inmates could provide free labor for county and city projects. After that he started up chain gangs for women (so he wouldn’t get sued for discrimination). He tried to take away cable TV, but a federal court later ordered there be cable TV access for all jails. So he hooked up the cable TV again, but only let in the Disney Channel and the Weather Channel. When asked why he allowed in The Weather Channel, he said it was so his inmates would “know how hot it’s gonna to be while they’re working on my chain gangs.”
When the inmates complained, Joe told them, “This isn't the Ritz-Carlton. If you don't like it, don't come back.”
But Joe didn’t stop there. He bought Newt Gingrich’s lecture series on videotape so he could pipe it into the jails. Unusually cruel if you ask me.
With temperatures climbing to 116 degrees, the AP recently reported that about 2,000 of his inmates living in “tent city” were given permission to strip down to their pink boxer shorts. Many were also draped in wet, pink towels as they perspired in the desert sun.
"It feels like we are in a furnace," said one inmate who'd been living in the tents for 1 1/2 years. "It's inhumane."
Joe Arpaio doesn't give a shit about comfort. He says that he told all of his inmates: "It's 120 degrees in Iraq and our soldiers are living in tents, too, and they have to wear full battle gear, but they didn't commit any crimes, so shut your damned mouths!"
You go, Joe.
Some people think if all prisons were like this one, there would be a lot less crime - or, at least a lot fewer repeat offenders. I don't know how true that is - but I do like Joe's approach. Jail is supposed to be punishment...not a place to relax, eat for free, watch television, and work out. Joe's inmates can't get too comfortable behind bars because Joe won't let them. And not because he doesn't care about people. He also created something called the School of Hard Knocks to help inmates get their high school diplomas. And his drug rehab program is a reported success. So Joe's doing something right - wouldn't you say?
You can read up on the mass e-mail that’s been going around here:
http://www.truthorfiction.com/rumors/m/miracopjail.htm
Or get more right from the horse’s mouth:
http://www.reelectjoe.com/
There’s a Sheriff in Arizona by the name of Joe Arpaio who’s a real ball breaker. Just the kind of guy the law enforcement community needs. And thanks to his no-nonsense approach to corrections, he’s been re-elected over and over again by the justice-minded folks of the Grand Canyon State. You may have heard about him already. I only recently did, so I dug around a bit to verify he was the real deal. Oh - he's real alright. Check this out.
Sheriff Joe’s methods may sound a little unorthodox – but they’ve made him the most popular guy around. Well, except for at the Maricopa County Jail. That’s Joe's turf. And it’s there that Joe created something called “tent city” – an outdoor jail where inmates sleep on cots in tents, and wear PINK shorts and socks. He said inmates were stealing his prison-issued underwear, so he dyed them pink. It must really soften these folks up around the edges.
Sheriff Joe decided to feed his convicts bologna sandwiches to knock jail meals down to 40 cents a serving. An independent source actually estimates the meals cost just 20 cents. That saves the taxpayers in his state a lot of money. He also cut off all coffee because he says it has zero nutritional value. Joe is a certified dietician, too. Okay - maybe not...but it's still his fucking prison.
America's toughest sheriff also put an end to cigarettes and pornography. Because smoking stinks, and porn is a privilege. He also took away their weights. He must figure his inmates will be less of a menace to society if they’re not all built like linebackers when they get out. He cut off all but G-rated movies because everybody knows how movies can glorify violent behavior. So the only "Babe" HIS jailbirds get to feast their eyes on is the precocious pig.
That’ll do, Joe. That’ll do.
He then started chain gangs so inmates could provide free labor for county and city projects. After that he started up chain gangs for women (so he wouldn’t get sued for discrimination). He tried to take away cable TV, but a federal court later ordered there be cable TV access for all jails. So he hooked up the cable TV again, but only let in the Disney Channel and the Weather Channel. When asked why he allowed in The Weather Channel, he said it was so his inmates would “know how hot it’s gonna to be while they’re working on my chain gangs.”
When the inmates complained, Joe told them, “This isn't the Ritz-Carlton. If you don't like it, don't come back.”
But Joe didn’t stop there. He bought Newt Gingrich’s lecture series on videotape so he could pipe it into the jails. Unusually cruel if you ask me.
With temperatures climbing to 116 degrees, the AP recently reported that about 2,000 of his inmates living in “tent city” were given permission to strip down to their pink boxer shorts. Many were also draped in wet, pink towels as they perspired in the desert sun.
"It feels like we are in a furnace," said one inmate who'd been living in the tents for 1 1/2 years. "It's inhumane."
Joe Arpaio doesn't give a shit about comfort. He says that he told all of his inmates: "It's 120 degrees in Iraq and our soldiers are living in tents, too, and they have to wear full battle gear, but they didn't commit any crimes, so shut your damned mouths!"
You go, Joe.
Some people think if all prisons were like this one, there would be a lot less crime - or, at least a lot fewer repeat offenders. I don't know how true that is - but I do like Joe's approach. Jail is supposed to be punishment...not a place to relax, eat for free, watch television, and work out. Joe's inmates can't get too comfortable behind bars because Joe won't let them. And not because he doesn't care about people. He also created something called the School of Hard Knocks to help inmates get their high school diplomas. And his drug rehab program is a reported success. So Joe's doing something right - wouldn't you say?
You can read up on the mass e-mail that’s been going around here:
http://www.truthorfiction.com/rumors/m/miracopjail.htm
Or get more right from the horse’s mouth:
http://www.reelectjoe.com/
A TASTEFUL MURDER
Mass murderer and all-purpose freak, Dennis Rader, began serving a life sentence today for the “BTK” sex-murders that terrorized the heartland for 17 years. For his heinous crimes, Dennis the Menace was sentenced to 10 consecutive life terms…with no chance of parole for 175 years. I don’t know why they bother mentioning that he becomes eligible for parole in 175 years – he would have to live to be 235. I’m sure it’s just a formality, but it’s beside the point. Allow me to simplify his sentence by reporting that Denny’s last gasp will be behind bars. And that’s all you need to know about that.
So who WAS this horrible butcher?
A.) An ex-rodeo clown and grenade enthusiast
B.) A former marine and comic book aficionado
C.) A mysterious transient with an I.Q. of 157
D.) A former church congregation president and Boy Scout leader
Sorry - did I make it too obvious? What gave it away, the church president or the Boy Scout leader?
If you’re wondering about his nickname, BTK…well, he gave it to himself. It stands for “bind, torture and kill.” Please don't confuse this maniac with the “BK killer,” otherwise known as the Double Whopper with Cheese – a gluttonous fast food offering that packs a heart-stopping 1060 calories. The BK killer doesn’t torture – it just binds and kills. Slowly. Pleasantly. It's an execution in good taste, really. The BK Killer satisfies you for years before delivering its surprise death blow. Taking a bite out of crime has never been so delicious!
So who WAS this horrible butcher?
A.) An ex-rodeo clown and grenade enthusiast
B.) A former marine and comic book aficionado
C.) A mysterious transient with an I.Q. of 157
D.) A former church congregation president and Boy Scout leader
Sorry - did I make it too obvious? What gave it away, the church president or the Boy Scout leader?
If you’re wondering about his nickname, BTK…well, he gave it to himself. It stands for “bind, torture and kill.” Please don't confuse this maniac with the “BK killer,” otherwise known as the Double Whopper with Cheese – a gluttonous fast food offering that packs a heart-stopping 1060 calories. The BK killer doesn’t torture – it just binds and kills. Slowly. Pleasantly. It's an execution in good taste, really. The BK Killer satisfies you for years before delivering its surprise death blow. Taking a bite out of crime has never been so delicious!
EMINEMPTY
Thursday, August 18, 2005
THIS IS CORNY
FOR YOU!
You don't have to be a Philadelphia Eagles fan to appreciate this one. Another starving multi-million dollar athlete holds out for more money...
http://www.foryouto.com/pages/1/index.htm
http://www.foryouto.com/pages/1/index.htm
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
SPAM HUMOR FOR YOU
According to a new sex study, the most common sexual position for married couples is a doggie style.
Specifically, the husband sits up and begs...while the wife rolls over and plays dead.
Specifically, the husband sits up and begs...while the wife rolls over and plays dead.
STOP AND GO ME
I’ve been having one of those days.
One of those days you just don’t feel yourself. One of those days that makes you want to bury your head in the sand. I don’t quite understand it. I got plenty of sleep last night. I’m not hungover. I even shit twice today. On any other day I’d be celebrating the daily double with a ticker tape parade. Not today. Today I feel out of it for no good reason. I just woke up in a haze that’s followed me around like that dizzying brown dust cloud that shadows Pigpen in the Peanuts comic strip.
Maybe my circadian rhythms are off.
Maybe I need some chocolate.
Maybe I need some really good news.
Maybe I just need a hug.
Maybe it’s just my birthday.
Yes, another full run around the sun complete. The years certainly do fly by the older you get. When I was a kid, summer camp seemed like it lasted forever. Now it feels like summer’s coming to an end before it ever began. Life is getting faster, and I don’t know that I like that. I want everything to slow down so I can appreciate more. So I can take my time doing the things I enjoy. So I can catch my breath. So I can enjoy the wonderful company of the person I call me.
What’s the deal with time? And what's the big rush? Where’s everybody running to? Why is tomorrow so important when all we really ever have is right now?
There is nothing tangible in tomorrow. I can’t smell tomorrow. I can’t taste it. I can’t feel it. I can only imagine tomorrow.
Right now, on the other hand, I can smell, taste, and feel.
Right now is always and forever.
Right now everything is slowing down.
Right now I feel ageless.
Now THIS is a happy birthday.
Go me...
One of those days you just don’t feel yourself. One of those days that makes you want to bury your head in the sand. I don’t quite understand it. I got plenty of sleep last night. I’m not hungover. I even shit twice today. On any other day I’d be celebrating the daily double with a ticker tape parade. Not today. Today I feel out of it for no good reason. I just woke up in a haze that’s followed me around like that dizzying brown dust cloud that shadows Pigpen in the Peanuts comic strip.
Maybe my circadian rhythms are off.
Maybe I need some chocolate.
Maybe I need some really good news.
Maybe I just need a hug.
Maybe it’s just my birthday.
Yes, another full run around the sun complete. The years certainly do fly by the older you get. When I was a kid, summer camp seemed like it lasted forever. Now it feels like summer’s coming to an end before it ever began. Life is getting faster, and I don’t know that I like that. I want everything to slow down so I can appreciate more. So I can take my time doing the things I enjoy. So I can catch my breath. So I can enjoy the wonderful company of the person I call me.
What’s the deal with time? And what's the big rush? Where’s everybody running to? Why is tomorrow so important when all we really ever have is right now?
There is nothing tangible in tomorrow. I can’t smell tomorrow. I can’t taste it. I can’t feel it. I can only imagine tomorrow.
Right now, on the other hand, I can smell, taste, and feel.
Right now is always and forever.
Right now everything is slowing down.
Right now I feel ageless.
Now THIS is a happy birthday.
Go me...
EITHER OAR
Attended my annual “rafting” trip in Wisconsin a couple of weekends ago. I attach quotation marks to “rafting” because it’s really more of a drinking trip, on which there is some rafting. It’s an adventure I embark upon once a year – a chance to see people I only see once a year, to test the stowage capacity of my liver, and to challenge a curious fear of running water. Yeah – it’s bad. You should see me in the shower. On second thought, better that you not.
Anyhow, this year’s trip was another screaming success. And I wasn’t the only one doing the screaming. A lot of people fell out of their inflatable two-man rafts on the ride down the Wolf River, which was as low and slow as I’ve seen it in over 15 years. Fortunately, no one was seriously injured. Except for Steve, who managed to twist his knee on the final descent – a harrowing drop over Big Smokey Falls. The jury is still out as to what was more responsible for his injury – the falls, or the alcohols. Plural intentional.
This year I rafted with my girlfriend, Geri. She’d done this kind of thing before…on the far faster and more incommodious Peshtigo River. So she was no rookie. Geri is also a firm believer that rowing should result in a forward movement. Or, at least that rowing should result in movement that is not a 360-degree spin. Unfortunately, in my experience, this isn’t always possible when traversing rocks and branches, other rafters, and a fickle current. Add a little booze to the mix and we started out about as compatible rafting as Mensa and NASCAR. By Wolf’s end, however, we were negotiating the rapids like seasoned veterans. And in spite of finishing off several gallons of mystery spirits during the journey, we both managed to remain in our raft the entire time. That may have been a first for me, actually.
Here is an action photo of me, taken by Geri. It's easy to see what she sees in me. Underneath that rented life jacket is a buff, traveled sportsman!
I remember thinking at one point how life isn’t a whole lot unlike that river. Sometimes it’s cruising along quickly…other times it’s dragging slowly. Sometimes you’re sailing along unimpeded…other times you’re snagged on the rocks and can’t push yourself free. Sometimes you’re fighting the current, struggling to stay afloat…other times you’re lazily drifting about without a care in the world. It was interesting to me – how that familiar river had suddenly become a metaphor for my life. With a little communication and lots of hard work, we navigated our way from launch to drop without a hitch. And that’s life. Sometimes I can’t help but appreciate the perspective afforded by a good metaphor, however overdone.
But let’s get back to the literal world where the Wolf River is just a body of dirty water that winds through a Menominee Indian Reservation. This year we had over 50 people in attendance. That’s a pretty average year. Back in the mid-90’s we actually broke 100 a few times. With everyone getting married and having children, fewer people find the time to make it up. Again, c’est la vie. As their children get older, I suspect former rafters will be back. I’ve already seen it start to happen. Sooner or later, everyone heeds the call of the Wolf. You can only refuse fun so many times before it finally gets pissed and drags you out of the house.
This year, as is customary, everyone took Friday off of work and drove north into east central Wisconsin. We all met in a huge field, pitched our tents, and commenced partying like Nick Nolte. We kicked it Civil War style all day and night, grilling out, playing games, singing songs, and goosing each other in the flickering firelight – all without the threat of a Confederate invasion. It was much better than the Civil War ever was. At least that’s what my past life regression advisor tells me.
Saturday morning we all woke up hung over and started drinking. It was quite a spectacle, actually. Dozens of self-medicated partygoers staggering around like zombies in the white light of morning, vainly trying to recount details from the night before while mindlessly filling up plastic jugs with liquor and ice for a day of unbridled debauchery. Now that’s dedication.
Once we were outfitted for a good float downstream, we piled into our vehicles for a 25-minute drive down to Big Smokey Falls. That’s where we got our first look at the final descent – and panicked imagining our rafts plummeting over its frothing precipice. 15 years of rafting over that falls and I still get a pit in my stomach when I see it – which is silly, actually. I got a dose of perspective this year from my friend’s 11-year-old son who was flipped out of his raft while going over the falls. On the ride back to camp he proudly declared, “Falling out is the best part!” It may be time to acknowledge the very likely possibility that I am a big pussy.
From Big Smokey Falls we boarded an old, beat-up school bus that drove us up river for the leisurely 8-hour float back down. I should note that it’s not all a “float” ride downstream. There are SOME rapids. And people do fall out from time to time. Curiously, it seems the more people have to drink, the more likely they are to fall out of the raft. I wonder if there is a correlation?
That evening, after everyone had successfully traversed the final falls, we all headed back to camp, showered up (this is 21st century camping, people), and fired up our grills for a final feast. I made chorizo tacos that had our campsite smelling like a greasy Mexican spoon. They were fantastic, I must say – just ask anyone who agrees with me.
As darkness fell, Geri and I passed out peacefully in our separate tents under a star-filled sky. Okay – that’s not entirely true. But the sky did have a lot of stars in it. A lot of people don’t care for camping because they find the sleeping arrangements uncomfortable. Not me. I love camping because the sleeping arrangements are uncomfortable. The fun part is making things as amenable as you can get them with what little you have. We had an air mattress, a couple of sleeping bags, a couple of dewy pillows, plenty of extra clothes, and each other to pass the hours of night in comfort. Who needs more than that? Actually, now that I think about it, a portable space heater would have come in handy. But besides the unanticipated temperature drop, I had little problem sleeping. Another one of the many benefits of tequila.
Still alive after 16 less-than-extreme naval expeditions – and already looking forward to next year!
Anyhow, this year’s trip was another screaming success. And I wasn’t the only one doing the screaming. A lot of people fell out of their inflatable two-man rafts on the ride down the Wolf River, which was as low and slow as I’ve seen it in over 15 years. Fortunately, no one was seriously injured. Except for Steve, who managed to twist his knee on the final descent – a harrowing drop over Big Smokey Falls. The jury is still out as to what was more responsible for his injury – the falls, or the alcohols. Plural intentional.
This year I rafted with my girlfriend, Geri. She’d done this kind of thing before…on the far faster and more incommodious Peshtigo River. So she was no rookie. Geri is also a firm believer that rowing should result in a forward movement. Or, at least that rowing should result in movement that is not a 360-degree spin. Unfortunately, in my experience, this isn’t always possible when traversing rocks and branches, other rafters, and a fickle current. Add a little booze to the mix and we started out about as compatible rafting as Mensa and NASCAR. By Wolf’s end, however, we were negotiating the rapids like seasoned veterans. And in spite of finishing off several gallons of mystery spirits during the journey, we both managed to remain in our raft the entire time. That may have been a first for me, actually.
Here is an action photo of me, taken by Geri. It's easy to see what she sees in me. Underneath that rented life jacket is a buff, traveled sportsman!
I remember thinking at one point how life isn’t a whole lot unlike that river. Sometimes it’s cruising along quickly…other times it’s dragging slowly. Sometimes you’re sailing along unimpeded…other times you’re snagged on the rocks and can’t push yourself free. Sometimes you’re fighting the current, struggling to stay afloat…other times you’re lazily drifting about without a care in the world. It was interesting to me – how that familiar river had suddenly become a metaphor for my life. With a little communication and lots of hard work, we navigated our way from launch to drop without a hitch. And that’s life. Sometimes I can’t help but appreciate the perspective afforded by a good metaphor, however overdone.
But let’s get back to the literal world where the Wolf River is just a body of dirty water that winds through a Menominee Indian Reservation. This year we had over 50 people in attendance. That’s a pretty average year. Back in the mid-90’s we actually broke 100 a few times. With everyone getting married and having children, fewer people find the time to make it up. Again, c’est la vie. As their children get older, I suspect former rafters will be back. I’ve already seen it start to happen. Sooner or later, everyone heeds the call of the Wolf. You can only refuse fun so many times before it finally gets pissed and drags you out of the house.
This year, as is customary, everyone took Friday off of work and drove north into east central Wisconsin. We all met in a huge field, pitched our tents, and commenced partying like Nick Nolte. We kicked it Civil War style all day and night, grilling out, playing games, singing songs, and goosing each other in the flickering firelight – all without the threat of a Confederate invasion. It was much better than the Civil War ever was. At least that’s what my past life regression advisor tells me.
Saturday morning we all woke up hung over and started drinking. It was quite a spectacle, actually. Dozens of self-medicated partygoers staggering around like zombies in the white light of morning, vainly trying to recount details from the night before while mindlessly filling up plastic jugs with liquor and ice for a day of unbridled debauchery. Now that’s dedication.
Once we were outfitted for a good float downstream, we piled into our vehicles for a 25-minute drive down to Big Smokey Falls. That’s where we got our first look at the final descent – and panicked imagining our rafts plummeting over its frothing precipice. 15 years of rafting over that falls and I still get a pit in my stomach when I see it – which is silly, actually. I got a dose of perspective this year from my friend’s 11-year-old son who was flipped out of his raft while going over the falls. On the ride back to camp he proudly declared, “Falling out is the best part!” It may be time to acknowledge the very likely possibility that I am a big pussy.
From Big Smokey Falls we boarded an old, beat-up school bus that drove us up river for the leisurely 8-hour float back down. I should note that it’s not all a “float” ride downstream. There are SOME rapids. And people do fall out from time to time. Curiously, it seems the more people have to drink, the more likely they are to fall out of the raft. I wonder if there is a correlation?
That evening, after everyone had successfully traversed the final falls, we all headed back to camp, showered up (this is 21st century camping, people), and fired up our grills for a final feast. I made chorizo tacos that had our campsite smelling like a greasy Mexican spoon. They were fantastic, I must say – just ask anyone who agrees with me.
As darkness fell, Geri and I passed out peacefully in our separate tents under a star-filled sky. Okay – that’s not entirely true. But the sky did have a lot of stars in it. A lot of people don’t care for camping because they find the sleeping arrangements uncomfortable. Not me. I love camping because the sleeping arrangements are uncomfortable. The fun part is making things as amenable as you can get them with what little you have. We had an air mattress, a couple of sleeping bags, a couple of dewy pillows, plenty of extra clothes, and each other to pass the hours of night in comfort. Who needs more than that? Actually, now that I think about it, a portable space heater would have come in handy. But besides the unanticipated temperature drop, I had little problem sleeping. Another one of the many benefits of tequila.
Still alive after 16 less-than-extreme naval expeditions – and already looking forward to next year!
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
MR. JONES AND ME
Geri and I were chatting last night and she used the word “Jonesing” to describe a powerful urge she was having (let's call the object of her urge "chocolate"). Anyhow, she then wondered aloud where this term originated. Surprisingly, her know-it-all boyfriend did not have an answer. So I told her I’d hunt one down, as I value knowing obscure things almost as much as I value sharing the obscure things I know.
We all know what “Jonesing” means, right? It’s popularly utilized in connection with drugs or other items to which people develop strong cravings and desires. It’s most often used as a verb – “to Jones.” Although, it would not be incorrect to say that Michael Jackson has been accused of acting upon an inappropriate Jonesing. Noun.
Our question was not what the word means, but rather, where in fuck did it come from? Who is this magnetic Jones character? And why do we invoke his/her name whenever we feel drawn to a particular sensation or experience? I’ve been Jonesing to play a little basketball. I’m Jonesing for a super fat Reuben sandwich with extra saurkraut. I’m Jonesing for just one drag off that cigarette. I’m Jonesing for a delicious slice of cherry pie. I’m Jonesing for that next season of Survivor. (Hell the fuck yeah)
Who’s this Jones cat?
I dug around a little online. What did I find? Very little, actually. Everywhere I looked I found definitions of the expression, but no explanations of WHY. Finally, I stumbled upon a website called www.word-detective.com. The author apparently hunts down the meanings and origins of figures of speech and other interesting words/phrases for curious and perplexed readers. From the site I was able to gather a bit of background.
The verb “jones” is of African-American origin, and was introduced as slang back in the 60’s. Originally, it was as a noun that meant “a drug addiction, especially to heroin.” Why Jones? It is believed this name may have caught on because the term “Mister Jones” was a common euphemism for the local heroin pusher. Again, why “Jones” was chosen as a euphemism for heroin pusher eludes immediate explanation. Maybe there was an actual guy named Jones who got a lot of people high back in the day. All I know is, I’ll never hear the Counting Crows song “Mr. Jones” the same again.
Anyhow, that’s where the term “Jonesing” comes from.
We all know what “Jonesing” means, right? It’s popularly utilized in connection with drugs or other items to which people develop strong cravings and desires. It’s most often used as a verb – “to Jones.” Although, it would not be incorrect to say that Michael Jackson has been accused of acting upon an inappropriate Jonesing. Noun.
Our question was not what the word means, but rather, where in fuck did it come from? Who is this magnetic Jones character? And why do we invoke his/her name whenever we feel drawn to a particular sensation or experience? I’ve been Jonesing to play a little basketball. I’m Jonesing for a super fat Reuben sandwich with extra saurkraut. I’m Jonesing for just one drag off that cigarette. I’m Jonesing for a delicious slice of cherry pie. I’m Jonesing for that next season of Survivor. (Hell the fuck yeah)
Who’s this Jones cat?
I dug around a little online. What did I find? Very little, actually. Everywhere I looked I found definitions of the expression, but no explanations of WHY. Finally, I stumbled upon a website called www.word-detective.com. The author apparently hunts down the meanings and origins of figures of speech and other interesting words/phrases for curious and perplexed readers. From the site I was able to gather a bit of background.
The verb “jones” is of African-American origin, and was introduced as slang back in the 60’s. Originally, it was as a noun that meant “a drug addiction, especially to heroin.” Why Jones? It is believed this name may have caught on because the term “Mister Jones” was a common euphemism for the local heroin pusher. Again, why “Jones” was chosen as a euphemism for heroin pusher eludes immediate explanation. Maybe there was an actual guy named Jones who got a lot of people high back in the day. All I know is, I’ll never hear the Counting Crows song “Mr. Jones” the same again.
Anyhow, that’s where the term “Jonesing” comes from.
Friday, August 12, 2005
DROPPING A DEUCE
In case you've never read one, Roger Ebert's zero-star reviews are the best. You gotta love it when a movie is described as "aggressively bad." Just when you thought the Dukes of Hazzard was the worst movie of the week...
http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20050811/REVIEWS/50725001
http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20050811/REVIEWS/50725001
THINK TANKERS
An F.B.I. terrorism task force in Los Angeles has warned that "Al Qaeda leaders plan to employ various types of fuel trucks as vehicle-borne improvised explosive devices in an effort to cause mass casualties in the U.S. prior to the 19th of September. Attacks are planned specifically for New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. It is unclear whether the attacks will occur simultaneously or be spread out over a period of time, and the goal of the attack is to collapse the U.S. economy."
This warning was issued after an overseas source indicated that terrorists might seek to steal fuel tanker trucks to inflict "mass casualties" by staging an anniversary attack. Despite this threat, there are no immediate plans to raise the national threat level.
As someone who lives in Chicago and could do without a large-scale attack, I would like to encourage all truck drivers to use the Club when stopping at the Waffle House. And don't pick up hitchhikers. And lock your doors. And if someone DOES manage to spirit off in your rig with a hefty payload of flammable materials, don't call the union first. Report it to the authorities immediately.
That is all.
This warning was issued after an overseas source indicated that terrorists might seek to steal fuel tanker trucks to inflict "mass casualties" by staging an anniversary attack. Despite this threat, there are no immediate plans to raise the national threat level.
As someone who lives in Chicago and could do without a large-scale attack, I would like to encourage all truck drivers to use the Club when stopping at the Waffle House. And don't pick up hitchhikers. And lock your doors. And if someone DOES manage to spirit off in your rig with a hefty payload of flammable materials, don't call the union first. Report it to the authorities immediately.
That is all.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
GONE FISSION
The U.N.’s nuclear watchdog agency adopted a resolution today calling on Iran to halt all nuclear fuel development. I think the official memo read something to the effect of: “Cut it out!”
The International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) was concerned Iran was revving up its nuclear facilities for some good-old fashioned weapon making, so it issued an edict of cease and desist. As you might imagine, the folks in Iran are not pleased.
Iran claims it has every right to pursue nuclear power, as atomic energy is a relatively clean and efficient way to generate electricity. Seems like a reasonable argument to me. Why should only a select few countries be permitted to reap the benefits of nuclear power? Unfortunately, the subject of uranium is bathed in gray.
At the heart of the issue is the popular backyard pastime of Uranium Enrichment. You may have tried it back when you were a kid, with mixed success. Today it seems like everybody’s getting into it. The North Koreans. the Iranians. Martha Stewart. Wait. I think Martha may actually be more into geraniums. I'll need to check my source on that to be sure. Anyhow, this is a delicate issue because uranium enrichment isn’t a game. It’s playing God with nature and can have potentially devastating consequences. Let’s discuss uranium for a moment, shall we? It'll be fun, I promise. And you'll learn something really cool!
It’s simple. Uranium is a very heavy, dense metal that’s found in most rocks. It pretty common, actually – as abundant as tin and tungsten in the earth’s surface. It is believed uranium was formed in a supernova billions of years ago, but it wasn't discovered until 1789 - by some unimaginative German who named it after the planet Uranus, which had been discovered 8 years earlier. It's powerful potential would not be fully realized or appreciated until the 20th century, after squads of meddlesome and enterprising physicists figured out how to tamper with the building blocks of matter. Now it's at the center of global politics as an element of concern.
Uranium's radioactive decay is what makes it so special. In fact, this decay is what provides the main source of heat inside our planet’s core. Of course, I could be making that up for all you know. But I’m not. Really. Go look it up. On the scale of naturally occurring elements, where Helium is the lightest, Uranium is the heaviest. And when the nucleus of a Uranium atom is split (this is called fission), energy is produced in the form of heat. A chain reaction of atoms splitting can create a whole lot of heat with very little uranium. This heat is then used to make steam, which generates electricity. It’s all very simple, really. I did it in my bathtub once with some Brillo pads and a home Fission kit.
Did you know that one nuclear reactor can provide enough electricity for a million people? In fact, the fission from a single atom of uranium produces 10 million times the energy produced by the combustion of an atom of carbon from coal. Yeah – uranium is an extremely powerful power source.
Most people don’t realize how important nuclear energy has become. Ten years ago, the U.S. had 109 licensed power reactors that generated about 20% of our country’s electricity. With supplies of natural resources increasingly in question, many believe nuclear energy represents the most reliable future source of energy. It’s also better for the environment. In 2003, 83% of all U.S. greenhouse gas emissions resulted from the combustion of fossil fuels like coal, petroleum and natural gas. Emission-free, nuclear-generated electricity, on the other hand, spares the release of nearly 700 million metric tons of carbon dioxide EACH YEAR.
The benefits of nuclear power are not a secret. Plenty of other countries use nuclear power to generate much higher percentages of their nation’s electricity than the US. In France, 78% of their electricity is nuclear. In Sweden, 50%. All in all, over 16% of the world’s electricity is a product of uranium.
So why can’t Iran enrich uranium to provide electricity? Is it because highly enriched uranium can also be used to make powerful weapons? Not exactly. It’s because nobody trusts they won’t do it.
Some people, like me, can’t help but wonder why they’d need nuclear power when they’re sitting on top of one of the world’s largest oil reserves. They’ve got secure access to more natural resources than they could possibly ever use – and they’re building a nuclear reactor to generate electricity? You don't need an abacus to know something doesn't add up.
Magnanimously, the UN didn’t demand Iran quit uranium cold turkey. Instead, they’ve been given until September to lay off the atomic shit. So Iran is on the uranium patch.
My guess is that they’re not going to comply. And then sanctions will be imposed, after which the Iranian people will grow resentful of the “oppressive” world community. The threat of force will follow, and they’ll thumb their noses with nationalist pride at the Security Council…just as Saddam Insane had done. As tensions rise, Iran will declare all atomic operations suspended, and lodge a series of formal objections before the General Assembly. Inspection teams will be deployed to determine if they’re secretly producing weapons-grade fuel, but evidence will be harder to find than a good review of the Dukes of Hazzard movie. Hans Blix will write a book. Richard Butler will write a book. Jimmy Carter will pray for peace. George Bush will declare Iran a grave and gathering "NUKULAR" threat that must be confronted before it is too late. Michael Moore will stop eating to start his next big project: an answer to Morgan Spurlock’s “Supersize Me” in which he eats nothing but salads and fish for 30 days, losing half his weight including the massive the chip on his shoulder.
And you and I will continue to pay $2.76 per gallon for gas because big business refuses to explore alternative sources of energy. Like uranium.
The International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) was concerned Iran was revving up its nuclear facilities for some good-old fashioned weapon making, so it issued an edict of cease and desist. As you might imagine, the folks in Iran are not pleased.
Iran claims it has every right to pursue nuclear power, as atomic energy is a relatively clean and efficient way to generate electricity. Seems like a reasonable argument to me. Why should only a select few countries be permitted to reap the benefits of nuclear power? Unfortunately, the subject of uranium is bathed in gray.
At the heart of the issue is the popular backyard pastime of Uranium Enrichment. You may have tried it back when you were a kid, with mixed success. Today it seems like everybody’s getting into it. The North Koreans. the Iranians. Martha Stewart. Wait. I think Martha may actually be more into geraniums. I'll need to check my source on that to be sure. Anyhow, this is a delicate issue because uranium enrichment isn’t a game. It’s playing God with nature and can have potentially devastating consequences. Let’s discuss uranium for a moment, shall we? It'll be fun, I promise. And you'll learn something really cool!
It’s simple. Uranium is a very heavy, dense metal that’s found in most rocks. It pretty common, actually – as abundant as tin and tungsten in the earth’s surface. It is believed uranium was formed in a supernova billions of years ago, but it wasn't discovered until 1789 - by some unimaginative German who named it after the planet Uranus, which had been discovered 8 years earlier. It's powerful potential would not be fully realized or appreciated until the 20th century, after squads of meddlesome and enterprising physicists figured out how to tamper with the building blocks of matter. Now it's at the center of global politics as an element of concern.
Uranium's radioactive decay is what makes it so special. In fact, this decay is what provides the main source of heat inside our planet’s core. Of course, I could be making that up for all you know. But I’m not. Really. Go look it up. On the scale of naturally occurring elements, where Helium is the lightest, Uranium is the heaviest. And when the nucleus of a Uranium atom is split (this is called fission), energy is produced in the form of heat. A chain reaction of atoms splitting can create a whole lot of heat with very little uranium. This heat is then used to make steam, which generates electricity. It’s all very simple, really. I did it in my bathtub once with some Brillo pads and a home Fission kit.
Did you know that one nuclear reactor can provide enough electricity for a million people? In fact, the fission from a single atom of uranium produces 10 million times the energy produced by the combustion of an atom of carbon from coal. Yeah – uranium is an extremely powerful power source.
Most people don’t realize how important nuclear energy has become. Ten years ago, the U.S. had 109 licensed power reactors that generated about 20% of our country’s electricity. With supplies of natural resources increasingly in question, many believe nuclear energy represents the most reliable future source of energy. It’s also better for the environment. In 2003, 83% of all U.S. greenhouse gas emissions resulted from the combustion of fossil fuels like coal, petroleum and natural gas. Emission-free, nuclear-generated electricity, on the other hand, spares the release of nearly 700 million metric tons of carbon dioxide EACH YEAR.
The benefits of nuclear power are not a secret. Plenty of other countries use nuclear power to generate much higher percentages of their nation’s electricity than the US. In France, 78% of their electricity is nuclear. In Sweden, 50%. All in all, over 16% of the world’s electricity is a product of uranium.
So why can’t Iran enrich uranium to provide electricity? Is it because highly enriched uranium can also be used to make powerful weapons? Not exactly. It’s because nobody trusts they won’t do it.
Some people, like me, can’t help but wonder why they’d need nuclear power when they’re sitting on top of one of the world’s largest oil reserves. They’ve got secure access to more natural resources than they could possibly ever use – and they’re building a nuclear reactor to generate electricity? You don't need an abacus to know something doesn't add up.
Magnanimously, the UN didn’t demand Iran quit uranium cold turkey. Instead, they’ve been given until September to lay off the atomic shit. So Iran is on the uranium patch.
My guess is that they’re not going to comply. And then sanctions will be imposed, after which the Iranian people will grow resentful of the “oppressive” world community. The threat of force will follow, and they’ll thumb their noses with nationalist pride at the Security Council…just as Saddam Insane had done. As tensions rise, Iran will declare all atomic operations suspended, and lodge a series of formal objections before the General Assembly. Inspection teams will be deployed to determine if they’re secretly producing weapons-grade fuel, but evidence will be harder to find than a good review of the Dukes of Hazzard movie. Hans Blix will write a book. Richard Butler will write a book. Jimmy Carter will pray for peace. George Bush will declare Iran a grave and gathering "NUKULAR" threat that must be confronted before it is too late. Michael Moore will stop eating to start his next big project: an answer to Morgan Spurlock’s “Supersize Me” in which he eats nothing but salads and fish for 30 days, losing half his weight including the massive the chip on his shoulder.
And you and I will continue to pay $2.76 per gallon for gas because big business refuses to explore alternative sources of energy. Like uranium.
WANT A WEEKLY REMINDER?
As most of you know, I used to dump all of my thoughts into an e-mail and jettison them to hundreds and hundreds of people around the world every week. Since finding this format, however, I’ve only used my weekly e-mail blast to remind people to check in every so often. Many of you are already on the reminder list (because you appreciate the weekly nudge). But some of you may have stumbled upon this site by pure accident (fate), or because someone you love wanted to share something they love. So if you are not on the list and would like a weekly reminder to check back, you can subscribe here:
http://lists.topica.com/lists/AYNtK/
When I went to Topica to sign up for my list, I discovered I was a “Topica Pick.” Apparently, AYNtK has been designated a good read by the editors at Topica.com. According to their site, the little bug they placed next to AYNtK “indicates that a list has won Topica's pick for valuable content. Topica Picks are the most intriguing, amusing, useful and informative lists in their category.”
Well, I’ll be dipped in shit.
http://lists.topica.com/lists/AYNtK/
When I went to Topica to sign up for my list, I discovered I was a “Topica Pick.” Apparently, AYNtK has been designated a good read by the editors at Topica.com. According to their site, the little bug they placed next to AYNtK “indicates that a list has won Topica's pick for valuable content. Topica Picks are the most intriguing, amusing, useful and informative lists in their category.”
Well, I’ll be dipped in shit.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
START ME UP
Broadcast network ABC signed the Rolling Stones to a season-long contract promoting Monday Night Football. The network plans to feature music and video footage of the legendary rock band in its promotional campaigns and highlight reels. So let me get this straight, the new season of American football is going to be ushered in by a group of old British guys? Okay then...just making sure.
STROKE IT
"That kid's got a break like a thunderclap."
- The Color of Money
http://axifer.com/portfolio/billiards.html
- The Color of Money
http://axifer.com/portfolio/billiards.html
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
TALKING PICTURES
It’s not often, but every once in awhile I find a product or service I don’t mind crowing about. Blockbuster.com is one such service. Since I've never been accused of keeping things short, here's my long-winded explanation of why.
I fought the monthly online rental service for some time before finally signing up. I tend to be a late adopter when there’s a monthly fee involved. I guess I figure if I’m going to put you on my payroll, you’ve got to prove yourself first. The only thing Blockbuster had ever proven to me was that they could cleverly rename a late fee a "restocking fee" and then announce to the world that late fees were no more. Anyone hungry for a scam sandwich?
But beyond that, I wasn't sure if monthly was going to make sense given my rental habits. I felt I was better off renting DVDs when I felt like it, instead of paying up front and hoping I’d get my money’s worth over the course of a month. But the kid behind the counter at Blockbuster was kind enough (if slightly smug) to point out that I had rented 7 movies in a single month. I got his subtle point almost immediately: my rental strategy was not a cost-effective one.
At $4.26 per rental (yes, that’s what Blockbuster now charges me to RENT a movie), I’d spent $30 in rentals – when I could have rented the same number (or more) for half of that through Blockbuster.com.
I signed up the very next day. Since then, I must admit I have found the service a convenient one. For $14.99, I get unlimited rentals delivered to my house, complete with postage-paid return envelopes. I can be in possession of three DVDs at a time and hold them for as long as I want without penalty (I’m sure there’s something in the fine print for people who insist on testing this policy). There are no restocking fees – I just watch them at my leisure and when I am done, I drop them in the post and wait for my next feature to arrive. I’ve filled my online queue with movies I want to see and log in weekly to peruse new releases. And instead of having to trek outside on a whim, my girlfriend and I always have three DVDs atop her television – movies we’ve selected either together or individually – to watch whenever we want. It’s easy, convenient, and cost-effective.
Now, there is another service like this one that you may have heard about called Netflix. It was started well before blockbuster.com and operates in much the same fashion: a monthly fee for unlimited rentals. A friend of mine tells me they have a broader selection of movies, but I’m not qualified to speak to that. I can only submit that with my Blockbuster.com membership I get two free in-store rentals every month. That way if I don’t feel like waiting for a movie to show up, or get the spontaneous urge to see something “right fucking now,” I can hoof it over to my local brick-and-mortar outlet and pick it up for nothing. Netflix, having no freestanding stores, can’t offer that. Just this week I had the sudden inclination to introuduce a 5-year-old to the magic of Spielberg's E.T. So I printed off a coupon, headed over to Blockbuster, and walked out with a DVD. Convenient and cost-effective.
They do have different plans for different people. If you only want to rent a single movie at a time, they'll start you off at just $9.99. I prefer having a choice, and a lineup of options atop the tube...so I'm on board for the "3-at-a-time" program. If you're a movie renter, I recommend checking it out!
The End
I fought the monthly online rental service for some time before finally signing up. I tend to be a late adopter when there’s a monthly fee involved. I guess I figure if I’m going to put you on my payroll, you’ve got to prove yourself first. The only thing Blockbuster had ever proven to me was that they could cleverly rename a late fee a "restocking fee" and then announce to the world that late fees were no more. Anyone hungry for a scam sandwich?
But beyond that, I wasn't sure if monthly was going to make sense given my rental habits. I felt I was better off renting DVDs when I felt like it, instead of paying up front and hoping I’d get my money’s worth over the course of a month. But the kid behind the counter at Blockbuster was kind enough (if slightly smug) to point out that I had rented 7 movies in a single month. I got his subtle point almost immediately: my rental strategy was not a cost-effective one.
At $4.26 per rental (yes, that’s what Blockbuster now charges me to RENT a movie), I’d spent $30 in rentals – when I could have rented the same number (or more) for half of that through Blockbuster.com.
I signed up the very next day. Since then, I must admit I have found the service a convenient one. For $14.99, I get unlimited rentals delivered to my house, complete with postage-paid return envelopes. I can be in possession of three DVDs at a time and hold them for as long as I want without penalty (I’m sure there’s something in the fine print for people who insist on testing this policy). There are no restocking fees – I just watch them at my leisure and when I am done, I drop them in the post and wait for my next feature to arrive. I’ve filled my online queue with movies I want to see and log in weekly to peruse new releases. And instead of having to trek outside on a whim, my girlfriend and I always have three DVDs atop her television – movies we’ve selected either together or individually – to watch whenever we want. It’s easy, convenient, and cost-effective.
Now, there is another service like this one that you may have heard about called Netflix. It was started well before blockbuster.com and operates in much the same fashion: a monthly fee for unlimited rentals. A friend of mine tells me they have a broader selection of movies, but I’m not qualified to speak to that. I can only submit that with my Blockbuster.com membership I get two free in-store rentals every month. That way if I don’t feel like waiting for a movie to show up, or get the spontaneous urge to see something “right fucking now,” I can hoof it over to my local brick-and-mortar outlet and pick it up for nothing. Netflix, having no freestanding stores, can’t offer that. Just this week I had the sudden inclination to introuduce a 5-year-old to the magic of Spielberg's E.T. So I printed off a coupon, headed over to Blockbuster, and walked out with a DVD. Convenient and cost-effective.
They do have different plans for different people. If you only want to rent a single movie at a time, they'll start you off at just $9.99. I prefer having a choice, and a lineup of options atop the tube...so I'm on board for the "3-at-a-time" program. If you're a movie renter, I recommend checking it out!
The End
Monday, August 08, 2005
THE GREAT UNKNOWN
There are just some things in life we're not meant to understand. I really believe that. Like sinus medication. How can it be the remedy for both a runny and a stuffy nose? I just don't get it. Whether you're all clogged up or flowing like a mountain stream, the same little pill is supposed to stabilize things in snot central. The whole idea confuses me. I'm better off not thinking about it. Better I ponder something I may one day have the answer for - like how people are able to tolerate (if not enjoy) the smell of their own gas, but hack and gasp with disgust at the slightest hint of someone else's. Mysteries. Life is full of mysteries...
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
WHO'S THE MAN?
I mean, really. Honestly. Who is THE MAN?
http://www.crapville.com/media_videos12/utheman.wmv
(or click the header)
Now you know.
http://www.crapville.com/media_videos12/utheman.wmv
(or click the header)
Now you know.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Friday, July 29, 2005
MY MIND'S "I"
Your brain has a very important job. It creates order where there is chaos. I imagine in my brain there is a little version of me, almost as charming and handsome, sitting behind a very large desk in a corner office, making important life decisions while efficiently filing away the details of every exchange and interaction for future reference. To protect his identity, I'm just going to call him Little Me.
Little Me works very hard in the office of my mind, for very little thanks, and even less pay. But he gets a lot of sleep and free beer – so he’s good.
In addition to being a terrible thing to waste, the mind also happens to be a terribly busy place to work. Little Me sits in a big leather chair with a big red stamp pad, sifting through countless requests day after day…granting those most necessary, delaying those that can wait, sending on to committee those that require further consideration, and rejecting the rest in the blink of an eye. Little Me pushes a lot of paper in a day, but is not just a paper pusher. Little Me is the VP of Operations for Life Management Systems – he's the man behind the man.
Running the body’s business is a demanding job. The office of the mind receives endless requests from all over – the bladder office, the belly plant, and the bowel mine…just to name a few. And then there are all kinds of requests from other bodies to consider. I can only be in one place at one time, and someone has to make that very important call. Where to go, who to see, what to say, how to get there – it’s all got to go through Little Me.
Little Me is the primary contact on such important life decisions as: Do I buy this CD even though I’ve only heard one song? Do I eat this day-old sushi? Should I work out or take a nap? Is it too late to call? Am I done wiping? Where did I leave my keys? What’s that smell, is it me, and should I be concerned? How much more back hair is going to warrant a wax? How much should I tip?
On Little Me’s desk sits a massive stack of papers. Every new task is a memo sheet. Every new need is a purchase order. Every new introduction is a resume. Little Me efficiently files all of these papers without my even thinking about it. Sometimes the papers get mixed up – like when I mistake someone’s name. Sometimes they get lost – like when I forget a dentist appointment. And sometimes Little Me ends up with so many pieces of paper on his desk he gets overwhelmed and walks out on me. That’s usually when I proclaim something like “I’m losing my mind!” I’m not actually losing my mind – I’ve just lost control of it temporarily. When Little Me comes back after his ten minute smoke break, everything will be cool again. I just need to get by while Little Me is out of the office.
As you can see, Little Me has a big job. He calls the shots…even if the rest of me doesn’t always comply. Consider the situation in my pants. Every morning I wake up with a mature sequoia sprouting from my loins. Little Me has made it clear that he’s got nothing to do with that bodily function. That whole department, I’ve been told, has got a mind of its own.
I recently sent a memo to Little Me to let him know he’s doing a fantastic job. I also suggested a policy of using paper clips instead of staples. For as long as I can remember, Little Me has been using staples to keep things together. When he needs to place a face with a name, he staples them together. When he needs to file a restaurant, an address, a memory, and a newspaper review together, he staples them. Stapling effectively ensures that all of those pieces of information stay together for quick retrieval. But it’s hard to update your files when everything is stapled together. Paper clips, on the other hand, ensure pieces of information stay together with less permanence. That way you can add new information, and swap out the old for the new. It’s simply a better way of doing things.
I’ve already noticed my paper clip policy has been streamlining operations. Here’s an example. My belly used to send endless requests for food. Little Me would pull the file to review the list of approved vendors: tacos, pizza, potato chips, cheese sticks, nachos, bratwurst, patty melt, gyros, biscuits and gravy, and so on. A purchase order would then be completed, a transaction made, and the belly would receive a shipment of approved food. Everything in the Approved Foods file was stapled together, so Little Me was able to reference his options quickly.
What Little Me didn’t realize was how a single staple made him reluctant to update his file. Adding new vendors would have created mayhem in the Approved Foods file because all of the loose sheets would have defeated the purpose of stapling. It would have meant more work to sift through all of those papers, or to remove staples and re-staple the entire stack every time a new option was added. Since switching to paperclips, Little Me has been adding all sorts of healthier alternatives to the Approved Foods file: Boca Burgers, grapefruit, salad, fish, Sun Chips, etc. And not only is the Belly pleased, but so are the bowels, the heart, and the brain.
There are a lot of files in the office of the mind. And a lot of them contain a lot of papers – things I tell myself I need to “keep in mind.” Instead of stapling everything for order’s sake and becoming a rigid thinker, I’m now using binder clips to keep everything together. With binder clips, I’m free to experience new things. I can see other points of view. I can appreciate things I never noticed before. I can approach problems from a new angle. Staples had created bureaucracy – requests of the mind were processed reflexively for order and speed. Paper clips have opened up the mind to new possibilities.
Sometimes people will see me doing something out of the ordinary, like drinking tequila with a straw, and ask me, “Are you out of your mind?” I really don’t have an answer for them other than to say, “My VP of Operations for Life Management has ditched staples in favor of paper clips to afford me new experiences like this one.” That usually answers their question.
A lot of people like to think they know what’s best for me. And they’re not shy about letting me know. “Your socks don’t match – I hope you don’t mind me saying so.” Do I mind? I run that request by Little Me who is in charge of the mind. But Little Me is too preoccupied with finding a restroom (the result of an earlier decision to eat day-old sushi) to mind and has issued this memo: Mind your own fucking business. So I reply kindly, “No, I don’t mind at all. Thanks for letting me know.”
Do you have any idea who’s staffing the office of your mind right now? Little You? Little You is clearly taking a break if you are reading this. He or she has decided it’s time for a little light entertainment and is out back smoking dope with the cafeteria bus boys. Don’t be alarmed – Little You will be back shortly and you’ll be able to resume normal operations.
And that brings me, at long last, to my whole point. Every once in a while you need to give Little You an evaluation. I’m not talking about staples versus paper clips here. I’m talking about a performance review. Does Little You keep you fed, clothed, and rested? Are you otherwise generally satisfied and content? Has Little You been steering you in a positive direction? Are you happy? If so, then give your VP of Operations a raise. Keep Little You happy so you don’t end up losing your mind.
On the other hand, however, if you think Little You has been falling asleep on the job, making poor decisions, and taking you down a path toward ruin, then it may be time to consider bringing in a fresh perspective. Remember – you can ALWAYS change your mind.
Not me. I know he’s not perfect, but Little Me gets the job done. And he’s cheap. So I just signed him to a long-term contract. Hey - it's hard to find good help these days.
So I guess you could say I’ve made up my mind for good.
Little Me works very hard in the office of my mind, for very little thanks, and even less pay. But he gets a lot of sleep and free beer – so he’s good.
In addition to being a terrible thing to waste, the mind also happens to be a terribly busy place to work. Little Me sits in a big leather chair with a big red stamp pad, sifting through countless requests day after day…granting those most necessary, delaying those that can wait, sending on to committee those that require further consideration, and rejecting the rest in the blink of an eye. Little Me pushes a lot of paper in a day, but is not just a paper pusher. Little Me is the VP of Operations for Life Management Systems – he's the man behind the man.
Running the body’s business is a demanding job. The office of the mind receives endless requests from all over – the bladder office, the belly plant, and the bowel mine…just to name a few. And then there are all kinds of requests from other bodies to consider. I can only be in one place at one time, and someone has to make that very important call. Where to go, who to see, what to say, how to get there – it’s all got to go through Little Me.
Little Me is the primary contact on such important life decisions as: Do I buy this CD even though I’ve only heard one song? Do I eat this day-old sushi? Should I work out or take a nap? Is it too late to call? Am I done wiping? Where did I leave my keys? What’s that smell, is it me, and should I be concerned? How much more back hair is going to warrant a wax? How much should I tip?
On Little Me’s desk sits a massive stack of papers. Every new task is a memo sheet. Every new need is a purchase order. Every new introduction is a resume. Little Me efficiently files all of these papers without my even thinking about it. Sometimes the papers get mixed up – like when I mistake someone’s name. Sometimes they get lost – like when I forget a dentist appointment. And sometimes Little Me ends up with so many pieces of paper on his desk he gets overwhelmed and walks out on me. That’s usually when I proclaim something like “I’m losing my mind!” I’m not actually losing my mind – I’ve just lost control of it temporarily. When Little Me comes back after his ten minute smoke break, everything will be cool again. I just need to get by while Little Me is out of the office.
As you can see, Little Me has a big job. He calls the shots…even if the rest of me doesn’t always comply. Consider the situation in my pants. Every morning I wake up with a mature sequoia sprouting from my loins. Little Me has made it clear that he’s got nothing to do with that bodily function. That whole department, I’ve been told, has got a mind of its own.
I recently sent a memo to Little Me to let him know he’s doing a fantastic job. I also suggested a policy of using paper clips instead of staples. For as long as I can remember, Little Me has been using staples to keep things together. When he needs to place a face with a name, he staples them together. When he needs to file a restaurant, an address, a memory, and a newspaper review together, he staples them. Stapling effectively ensures that all of those pieces of information stay together for quick retrieval. But it’s hard to update your files when everything is stapled together. Paper clips, on the other hand, ensure pieces of information stay together with less permanence. That way you can add new information, and swap out the old for the new. It’s simply a better way of doing things.
I’ve already noticed my paper clip policy has been streamlining operations. Here’s an example. My belly used to send endless requests for food. Little Me would pull the file to review the list of approved vendors: tacos, pizza, potato chips, cheese sticks, nachos, bratwurst, patty melt, gyros, biscuits and gravy, and so on. A purchase order would then be completed, a transaction made, and the belly would receive a shipment of approved food. Everything in the Approved Foods file was stapled together, so Little Me was able to reference his options quickly.
What Little Me didn’t realize was how a single staple made him reluctant to update his file. Adding new vendors would have created mayhem in the Approved Foods file because all of the loose sheets would have defeated the purpose of stapling. It would have meant more work to sift through all of those papers, or to remove staples and re-staple the entire stack every time a new option was added. Since switching to paperclips, Little Me has been adding all sorts of healthier alternatives to the Approved Foods file: Boca Burgers, grapefruit, salad, fish, Sun Chips, etc. And not only is the Belly pleased, but so are the bowels, the heart, and the brain.
There are a lot of files in the office of the mind. And a lot of them contain a lot of papers – things I tell myself I need to “keep in mind.” Instead of stapling everything for order’s sake and becoming a rigid thinker, I’m now using binder clips to keep everything together. With binder clips, I’m free to experience new things. I can see other points of view. I can appreciate things I never noticed before. I can approach problems from a new angle. Staples had created bureaucracy – requests of the mind were processed reflexively for order and speed. Paper clips have opened up the mind to new possibilities.
Sometimes people will see me doing something out of the ordinary, like drinking tequila with a straw, and ask me, “Are you out of your mind?” I really don’t have an answer for them other than to say, “My VP of Operations for Life Management has ditched staples in favor of paper clips to afford me new experiences like this one.” That usually answers their question.
A lot of people like to think they know what’s best for me. And they’re not shy about letting me know. “Your socks don’t match – I hope you don’t mind me saying so.” Do I mind? I run that request by Little Me who is in charge of the mind. But Little Me is too preoccupied with finding a restroom (the result of an earlier decision to eat day-old sushi) to mind and has issued this memo: Mind your own fucking business. So I reply kindly, “No, I don’t mind at all. Thanks for letting me know.”
Do you have any idea who’s staffing the office of your mind right now? Little You? Little You is clearly taking a break if you are reading this. He or she has decided it’s time for a little light entertainment and is out back smoking dope with the cafeteria bus boys. Don’t be alarmed – Little You will be back shortly and you’ll be able to resume normal operations.
And that brings me, at long last, to my whole point. Every once in a while you need to give Little You an evaluation. I’m not talking about staples versus paper clips here. I’m talking about a performance review. Does Little You keep you fed, clothed, and rested? Are you otherwise generally satisfied and content? Has Little You been steering you in a positive direction? Are you happy? If so, then give your VP of Operations a raise. Keep Little You happy so you don’t end up losing your mind.
On the other hand, however, if you think Little You has been falling asleep on the job, making poor decisions, and taking you down a path toward ruin, then it may be time to consider bringing in a fresh perspective. Remember – you can ALWAYS change your mind.
Not me. I know he’s not perfect, but Little Me gets the job done. And he’s cheap. So I just signed him to a long-term contract. Hey - it's hard to find good help these days.
So I guess you could say I’ve made up my mind for good.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
MEATY CONFESSION
I never thought it would happen to me. But it did. My friends, I’ve been living a lie for nearly a year now and can’t bear to keep this secret any longer.
I’ve felt ashamed to admit what I am about to reveal. Honestly, there have been days I couldn’t even bear to look at myself in the mirror. Disappointment only begins to describe how I feel right now. Disgusted is more like it. But I can no longer go on living this charade…pretending I am something I am not day after day. I hope you will still find it in your heart to love me for me, and to forgive me for misleading you for so long. Trust me – no one feels worse about this than I do. If anything, I need your support now more than ever.
It took a lot of time and some intensive counseling, but I’m finally starting to forgive myself. And it would mean the world if you would forgive me, too. So here it is. I admit it. I like Boca Burgers. Yes, you heard right. I actually enjoy the way they taste. I really like them…and worse, I’ve been eating them for months without telling anyone. MONTHS. I haven’t been able to look at beef and pork the same this whole time. I’m sorry, but it’s true.
What?
What are Boca Burgers? You seriously did NOT just ask me that. You’re only asking to cover the fact that you’re already more than familiar with them, right? Come on. Boca Burgers?
We’ve ALL tried them before, if only to sate that rumbling curiosity deep inside our bellies: Will this healthy, meatless soy patty really taste like a “burger”? The answer, for those of you truly unfamiliar with the concept of a “Boca Burger,” is that they taste, surprisingly, close enough.
No, they don’t sizzle and bleed red all over the frying pan. And they don’t fatten up in the middle when they cook. They don’t spout tasty grease that runs down your chin and they don’t flood the neighborhood with the sweet smell of sirloin sweat dripping onto ashen charcoal briquettes when you fire them up on the grill.
But they DO resemble the consistency and flavor well enough that you can make a meal out of them. Yes, even when you’re sober. And because they’re made of soy, they’re actually GOOD for you. Maybe I’m just rationalizing here, but I think you’d enjoy them. Have you tried them lately? They’re not what they once were. They’re good now. Really. What's more, a Boca Burger has fewer calories, far less fat, more fiber, and nearly as much protein as a beef burger. And they're cholesterol free (depending on the flavor you choose).
Anyhow – I’m truly sorry for having kept this from you all for so long. I’m just glad to finally get it out. No more secrets. Life is so much easier this way. Oh wait. Okay – one more secret. I shower in a swimsuit because I don’t like the way I look naked. But that's it. No more secrets.
[Click on the header for more info]
I’ve felt ashamed to admit what I am about to reveal. Honestly, there have been days I couldn’t even bear to look at myself in the mirror. Disappointment only begins to describe how I feel right now. Disgusted is more like it. But I can no longer go on living this charade…pretending I am something I am not day after day. I hope you will still find it in your heart to love me for me, and to forgive me for misleading you for so long. Trust me – no one feels worse about this than I do. If anything, I need your support now more than ever.
It took a lot of time and some intensive counseling, but I’m finally starting to forgive myself. And it would mean the world if you would forgive me, too. So here it is. I admit it. I like Boca Burgers. Yes, you heard right. I actually enjoy the way they taste. I really like them…and worse, I’ve been eating them for months without telling anyone. MONTHS. I haven’t been able to look at beef and pork the same this whole time. I’m sorry, but it’s true.
What?
What are Boca Burgers? You seriously did NOT just ask me that. You’re only asking to cover the fact that you’re already more than familiar with them, right? Come on. Boca Burgers?
We’ve ALL tried them before, if only to sate that rumbling curiosity deep inside our bellies: Will this healthy, meatless soy patty really taste like a “burger”? The answer, for those of you truly unfamiliar with the concept of a “Boca Burger,” is that they taste, surprisingly, close enough.
No, they don’t sizzle and bleed red all over the frying pan. And they don’t fatten up in the middle when they cook. They don’t spout tasty grease that runs down your chin and they don’t flood the neighborhood with the sweet smell of sirloin sweat dripping onto ashen charcoal briquettes when you fire them up on the grill.
But they DO resemble the consistency and flavor well enough that you can make a meal out of them. Yes, even when you’re sober. And because they’re made of soy, they’re actually GOOD for you. Maybe I’m just rationalizing here, but I think you’d enjoy them. Have you tried them lately? They’re not what they once were. They’re good now. Really. What's more, a Boca Burger has fewer calories, far less fat, more fiber, and nearly as much protein as a beef burger. And they're cholesterol free (depending on the flavor you choose).
Anyhow – I’m truly sorry for having kept this from you all for so long. I’m just glad to finally get it out. No more secrets. Life is so much easier this way. Oh wait. Okay – one more secret. I shower in a swimsuit because I don’t like the way I look naked. But that's it. No more secrets.
[Click on the header for more info]
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
GET THE PICTURE?
I was reading an article about Producer David E. Kelley, the man behind such television hits as L.A. Law, The Practice, Ally McBeal, and most recently, Boston Legal. He said that when he worked on L.A. Law, there were 48 minutes of show and just 12 minutes of commercials. Today there are a little more than 41 minutes of show and nearly 19 minutes of commercials! I bet you didn’t even notice how much more of your time and attention has been turned over to the ware-hawking pimps of corporate America. I must admit, I didn’t notice. I imagine they did it slowly over the years – like that guy at your party who imperceptibly inches up the volume on your stereo so slowly you don’t even notice it’s even getting louder until the neighbors start banging broom handles against the wall.
Kelley went on to say the decrease in show time makes it tougher to tell character-driven and emotional stories. No wonder TV sucks! Fantasy Island and ChiPs had 15% more time to tell their stories. Today, hour-long television dramas follow a five-act structure that typically allows for eight minutes of storytelling between commercial breaks. So a show today might look something like this: 2-8-4-8-4-8-4-8-4-8-2. And because these structures have become standard, you can’t even channel surf anymore. Every station takes a commercial break at the same time! It’s a conspiracy, and I don’t like it. Especially considering I pay a shitload of money to my cable company every month.
I thought the whole point to PAYING for cable was so the content was paid for by ME and not advertisers. I understand why NBC has commercials – it’s a “free” station that can be accessed by anyone with a pair of knitting needles and some tin foil. They NEED corporate-sponsored programming to stay in business. But you can’t get ESPN unless you PAY for it through your cable company. So if you’re paying for it, why are there still commercials? I smell a segment for the evening news: “The Fleecing of America – how cable companies are double-dipping their way to huge profits.”
Where is all of my cable money going if not into the programming? It’s not going into the service, that’s for certain. My cable cuts out once a month because of something called “solar flares.” It usually happens without warning, and in the bottom of the ninth inning. And the last time my cable MODEM went down, they told me it would be almost two weeks before someone could come out and check the line. Try going without your Internet connection for two days, let alone two weeks. No can do. I think I’d do better without running water for two days than access to the web.
If a portion of my cable contribution each month is fed back to the cable networks, to subsidize the revenue they glean from advertisers, then shouldn't I expect an improvement in the quality of the programming? More money means more to watch, right? I feel someone should be paying ME to watch half the crap on television these days, starting with anything original on USA.
Remember ONTV? It was a pay service that required a descrambler device. There were no commercials with ONTV. Television was free and paid for by sponsors, while ONTV was commercial-free because programming was paid for by you. Not these days. These days we all pay to sit through commercials. What's the deal with that?
Back in college, the roommates and I pooled our cash and bucked up for cable. It provided better reception and a wider selection of channels for a nominal fee of somewhere in the neighborhood of $10 a month. Of course, taxes and fees brought the bill closer to $18, but that’s life in the nickel-and-dime age. Even then, I remember most of the cable channels had commercials, but I didn’t mind so much because I was only shelling out $10 a month. And that was worth it to be able to get re-runs of Cheers at three different times every single day of the week.
Today, the cost of cable is nearly five times what it was just a short time ago – and what do we get for it? Five times more channels, most of them offering crap programming than you will never watch, and all of them with commercial advertisements. If you want to watch movies without interruptions, you have to order the “pay” channels. But technically, and presuming you're not stealing cable from your neighbor, aren't ALL cable channels pay channels? So HBO and Showtime are really “pay MORE” channels.
I recently programmed my television to skip the channels I don’t watch because I was sick of wading through cartoons and gardening expos and home shop-a-thons. I now have my list narrowed down to around 20 channels. I figure if I can’t find something to watch on 20 channels, I've got a problem access to 200 more channels isn’t going to solve.
Today there’s the Dish network, and TiVo, and pay-per-view movies. It’s all too much to consider! Do I get a dish? Do I have the right exposure to even own one? What if I move? How much is it really (after the attractive promotional offer ends)? Will I get local channels? How much more of my free time do I need to hand over to my television for TiVo to make sense? How can I justify increasing the size of my already inflated cable bill by buying movies on-demand? Aren’t I better off joining Netflix or something? Isn’t there more to life than what’s on TV?
But now I’m guilty of digression…
All I really wanted to say is that I don't like the idea of paying to watch commercials.
Kelley went on to say the decrease in show time makes it tougher to tell character-driven and emotional stories. No wonder TV sucks! Fantasy Island and ChiPs had 15% more time to tell their stories. Today, hour-long television dramas follow a five-act structure that typically allows for eight minutes of storytelling between commercial breaks. So a show today might look something like this: 2-8-4-8-4-8-4-8-4-8-2. And because these structures have become standard, you can’t even channel surf anymore. Every station takes a commercial break at the same time! It’s a conspiracy, and I don’t like it. Especially considering I pay a shitload of money to my cable company every month.
I thought the whole point to PAYING for cable was so the content was paid for by ME and not advertisers. I understand why NBC has commercials – it’s a “free” station that can be accessed by anyone with a pair of knitting needles and some tin foil. They NEED corporate-sponsored programming to stay in business. But you can’t get ESPN unless you PAY for it through your cable company. So if you’re paying for it, why are there still commercials? I smell a segment for the evening news: “The Fleecing of America – how cable companies are double-dipping their way to huge profits.”
Where is all of my cable money going if not into the programming? It’s not going into the service, that’s for certain. My cable cuts out once a month because of something called “solar flares.” It usually happens without warning, and in the bottom of the ninth inning. And the last time my cable MODEM went down, they told me it would be almost two weeks before someone could come out and check the line. Try going without your Internet connection for two days, let alone two weeks. No can do. I think I’d do better without running water for two days than access to the web.
If a portion of my cable contribution each month is fed back to the cable networks, to subsidize the revenue they glean from advertisers, then shouldn't I expect an improvement in the quality of the programming? More money means more to watch, right? I feel someone should be paying ME to watch half the crap on television these days, starting with anything original on USA.
Remember ONTV? It was a pay service that required a descrambler device. There were no commercials with ONTV. Television was free and paid for by sponsors, while ONTV was commercial-free because programming was paid for by you. Not these days. These days we all pay to sit through commercials. What's the deal with that?
Back in college, the roommates and I pooled our cash and bucked up for cable. It provided better reception and a wider selection of channels for a nominal fee of somewhere in the neighborhood of $10 a month. Of course, taxes and fees brought the bill closer to $18, but that’s life in the nickel-and-dime age. Even then, I remember most of the cable channels had commercials, but I didn’t mind so much because I was only shelling out $10 a month. And that was worth it to be able to get re-runs of Cheers at three different times every single day of the week.
Today, the cost of cable is nearly five times what it was just a short time ago – and what do we get for it? Five times more channels, most of them offering crap programming than you will never watch, and all of them with commercial advertisements. If you want to watch movies without interruptions, you have to order the “pay” channels. But technically, and presuming you're not stealing cable from your neighbor, aren't ALL cable channels pay channels? So HBO and Showtime are really “pay MORE” channels.
I recently programmed my television to skip the channels I don’t watch because I was sick of wading through cartoons and gardening expos and home shop-a-thons. I now have my list narrowed down to around 20 channels. I figure if I can’t find something to watch on 20 channels, I've got a problem access to 200 more channels isn’t going to solve.
Today there’s the Dish network, and TiVo, and pay-per-view movies. It’s all too much to consider! Do I get a dish? Do I have the right exposure to even own one? What if I move? How much is it really (after the attractive promotional offer ends)? Will I get local channels? How much more of my free time do I need to hand over to my television for TiVo to make sense? How can I justify increasing the size of my already inflated cable bill by buying movies on-demand? Aren’t I better off joining Netflix or something? Isn’t there more to life than what’s on TV?
But now I’m guilty of digression…
All I really wanted to say is that I don't like the idea of paying to watch commercials.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
PYONGYANG BANG
North Korea announced this week that it was in favor of a nuclear-free Korean peninsula.
The surprising declaration, made by North Korea’s envoy to international disarmament talks, initially eased tensions in the region…until an interpreter explained that by “free,” they meant “available at no cost.”
Did you know that one of out every three North Koreans is chronically malnourished? True stat. In fact, recent U.N. reports say people over there are foraging for acorns, grass, and seaweed just to get something in their bellies. It's not pretty. And here I complain when there's nothing good on television. Worse is the fact that North Korean dictator Kim Jong Ment Lee-IL has been threatening the development of nuclear weapons that would discourage the United States from invading, even while the U.S. says it has no interest in invading that oil-barren wasteland. They've been playing a diplomatic game of cat and mouse for some time. Will it end with a bang...or a whimper?
The surprising declaration, made by North Korea’s envoy to international disarmament talks, initially eased tensions in the region…until an interpreter explained that by “free,” they meant “available at no cost.”
Did you know that one of out every three North Koreans is chronically malnourished? True stat. In fact, recent U.N. reports say people over there are foraging for acorns, grass, and seaweed just to get something in their bellies. It's not pretty. And here I complain when there's nothing good on television. Worse is the fact that North Korean dictator Kim Jong Ment Lee-IL has been threatening the development of nuclear weapons that would discourage the United States from invading, even while the U.S. says it has no interest in invading that oil-barren wasteland. They've been playing a diplomatic game of cat and mouse for some time. Will it end with a bang...or a whimper?
PROMISES SOMETHING FOR EVERYONE
Do you ever spontaneously burst into singing the theme song from the Love Boat? ...exciting and new...come aboard...we're expecting you! I mean, like on an empty elevator - or in your car during an annoying commercial you've heard 20 times already. Or maybe as you're stepping into the shower it strikes you like a crowbar on the back of the head. ...set a course for adventure... Do you ever let rip into that old TV classic while you're vacuuming or scrubbing the dishes? ...soon we'll be making another run... It's just so damn catchy you can't help but belt out the lyrics loud and proud every time, just like it's the first and only time. *sigh*
So - do you? Yeah. Neither do I.
So - do you? Yeah. Neither do I.
THE FINAL STAGE
Lance Armstrong concluded one of the greatest sports careers of all time in Paris on Sunday with an unprecedented 7th Tour de France victory. But according to France’s AFP wire, many suspicions remain regarding the possible use of banned substances in his rise to Cycling’s pinnacle. As a result, French officials have declined repeated international requests to consider renaming the event Tour de Lance. (Looks like I've wasted a lot of stamps!)
What has made Armstrong’s domination even more remarkable, in case you’ve been living in a cave for the past decade, is the fact that his string of unlikely victories began just 18 months after he recovered from testicular cancer. That’s what makes his entire story so nuts, if you’ll forgive the pun.
Despite the skepticism of some, however, Armstrong has never tested positive for illegal substances. Yet, rather than admit he might actually be a skilled and proficient athlete, many people prefer clinging to the belief his return was aided by a foreign substance of some kind. I hate to dismiss these suspicions out of hand, so I have been allowing for the possibility that Lance may have plagued by a rare, performance-enhancing cancer that, in addition to destroying healthy cells and disrupting the normal function of organs throughout the body, works to improve the muscular and respiratory facilities that are key to cycling. (I Googled it yesterday and I think it's called Cycloma)
Anyhow, I’m sure Lance would like nothing other than to prove he’s been clean all these years, if for no other reason than to force his detractors to eat crow – and I don't mean Sheryl.
What has made Armstrong’s domination even more remarkable, in case you’ve been living in a cave for the past decade, is the fact that his string of unlikely victories began just 18 months after he recovered from testicular cancer. That’s what makes his entire story so nuts, if you’ll forgive the pun.
Despite the skepticism of some, however, Armstrong has never tested positive for illegal substances. Yet, rather than admit he might actually be a skilled and proficient athlete, many people prefer clinging to the belief his return was aided by a foreign substance of some kind. I hate to dismiss these suspicions out of hand, so I have been allowing for the possibility that Lance may have plagued by a rare, performance-enhancing cancer that, in addition to destroying healthy cells and disrupting the normal function of organs throughout the body, works to improve the muscular and respiratory facilities that are key to cycling. (I Googled it yesterday and I think it's called Cycloma)
Anyhow, I’m sure Lance would like nothing other than to prove he’s been clean all these years, if for no other reason than to force his detractors to eat crow – and I don't mean Sheryl.
Monday, July 25, 2005
JIHADONNA
I was just doing a little math in my head and think I may be onto something.
American pop-tart Madonna reported in the August edition of Vogue magazine that she’s in love with English life and intends to stay there. According to the Material Girl:
“The last thing I thought I would do is marry some laddish, shooting, pub going nature lover – and the last thing he thought he was going to do was marry some cheeky girl from the Midwest who doesn’t take no for an answer. But now I love England and want to be here and not in America. I see England as my home.”
Soon after the widespread publication of this declaration, a series of poweful explosives rocked London’s transit system, killing 56 people. Now - it may only be a coincidence - but I suspect SOMEONE doesn't want her over there! A proud nationalist, perhaps, declaring Jihadonna?
Just a thought.
Oh look...it's time for my medication.
American pop-tart Madonna reported in the August edition of Vogue magazine that she’s in love with English life and intends to stay there. According to the Material Girl:
“The last thing I thought I would do is marry some laddish, shooting, pub going nature lover – and the last thing he thought he was going to do was marry some cheeky girl from the Midwest who doesn’t take no for an answer. But now I love England and want to be here and not in America. I see England as my home.”
Soon after the widespread publication of this declaration, a series of poweful explosives rocked London’s transit system, killing 56 people. Now - it may only be a coincidence - but I suspect SOMEONE doesn't want her over there! A proud nationalist, perhaps, declaring Jihadonna?
Just a thought.
Oh look...it's time for my medication.
CONNECT FIVE
Here's a fun one for you. Very addictive. The computer lets you move first every time - which you'd think would be an advantage. But your advantage is quickly eclipsed by the computer's advantage: the fact that the computer is a computer and you are a simple-minded, carbon-based sentient being.
That said, it IS possible to win. I've only managed it twice in nearly 20 times for a conversion of just over 10%. I'm sure there's a pattern...I'm just too lazy to figure it out. Enjoy!
Click header to play.
That said, it IS possible to win. I've only managed it twice in nearly 20 times for a conversion of just over 10%. I'm sure there's a pattern...I'm just too lazy to figure it out. Enjoy!
Click header to play.
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