Since you have taken time out of your day to send me an unsolicited email, I
thought it would only be just for me to give you some unsolicited advice in
return. In regards to your email (subject: Christopher, I am a real person)
there are a couple of things you might want to consider:
1) While you may indeed be a very 'real person,' the fact that you need
to announce this suggest a touch of insecurity on your part. In which
case I would suggest that you take a day or two off from your heavy load of
spamming work and ask yourself a few introspective questions.
Such as: Am I really real? and How do I know I'm real and not some
script sending out random emails?
2) If, after much soul searching, you confirm your state of existence,
then I recommend you make note of a few things. I couldn't GAF whether
you are a real person or not, nor do I care what you are selling, buying,
leasing, loaning, or giving away. Instead of sending out endless amounts of
cyber-litter, may I suggest you do something more constructive, like verifying
the potentiality of recreating Jackass stunts.
I'm amazed none of the Warbloggers have picked up on
Michael makes an interesting Libertarian/Republican argument against
going to war with Saddam. I'm not sure I agree with it entirely,
but it is nice to see something besides bleeding hearts and renegades.
I'm unsure about this view because I think liberating the people of these nations
is just one of a number of possible reasons for attacking.
One such reason being defense. Yes, defense. I'm not saying
we should definitely attack Iraq, because I'm still not positive it is in our
best interest to do so. What I am saying, is that, at what point
does a defensive maneuver become an offensive one? At the risk of sounding
simple, I would say that in some ways, it is not too far removed from football.
Take the Super Bowl; Tampa's defense was extremely aggressive. They not
only took advantage of every stupid move the Raiders made, but also applied
enough consistent pressure that they encouraged (if not actually forced) the
Raiders to bumble around more. Yet, on the other hand, it is entirely
possible to overextend yourself defensively. So, I guess what I'm asking
is: In today's nuclear, bio-warfare world, what differentiates an offensive
move from a defensive one?
There are getting to be a lot of odes here. Does that make this the
land of odes? The blog of odes? Am I a man of many odes?
Or am I just sowing my (not so) wild odes?
I have a robe
green and flannel in its making
The first item grabbed upon awaking
Three pockets and a belt to tie
And just one hole, a dime in size.
Alas, 'tis this? The hole is ripping!
A flap flayed, my trust betraying,
And giving to me, as it were,
A very, very, cold shoulder.
I take showers that leave me looking like I just stepped out of
Silkwood, partly because I'm a
masochist that way, and partly because I just can't stand the cold. A
showering experience is not a success unless I come out glowing with the
radiance of first degree burns. The lobster look is what I'm going for
So imagine my trepidation this morning when I cranked the faucet to its rightful
setting of 'Boil,' and was greeted by the most tepid of waters. And that,
it would seem, is the tone for the day- tepid.
There was so much talk about the best defense vs. the best offense, but what
everyone failed to mention was that Tampa's D was actually their second offense.
When a defense is that aggresive I'm not sure it can still be called a
defense. Tampa ruled the game, and I'm still blown away by the speed and
agility of their "defense."
Overheard at the SB party-
You know, he doesn't really look that tall.
How tall is he?
He's at least 5'10" or 5'11"
Heh, 5' 11" is tall? I must be the Jolly, Skinny, Green Giant.
You might remember Hung-Ta from this post, but anyway he left last night to
go back to Taiwan. Before he left though, he gave me a business card of a
friend of his who is looking for people to teach English in Asia. I would make
more than I would start out making here in the U.S. as a teacher, and it would
be an amazingly interesting experience. I'm not sure as to how long I would
have to commit. Two years would be much easier, than say five or so. Considering
my dilemma it is definitely an option. I wonder what the cost of living is
like over there.
Ok, so why all the importance placed on 'pseudo-statements'? Logic may not
always change our emotions, but we are able to temper our emotions or, at the
very least, are actions according to logic. Literary theorists kill me. They
are always skipping lightly over certain truths in order to create some sense
of the extraordinary. They have to I guess - after all, written criticism is
an art in itself.
So we have a critic, creating a work of art about how to critique art.
Is this where we got the phrase "crawling up your own ass?"
1/21/02 @ 7:45 AM
My first post with CSS, and I only halfway know what I'm doing. I've got a headache. I skipped class and I think I'll link to something here. In fact, this
is kind of cool, once you get your head into the right space. No, not that space.
So, I've committed to writing six stories this semester. I'm nervous. I'm
anxious. I'm excited. Six term papers would be no problem. You're provided
with a topic and some specific texts to work with, they've all but written the
thing for you. But fiction. To write a story that can go anywhere, and
examine anything. To write six stories, under the pressure of deadlines. The
blank page is the ultimate freedom until its expanse is magnified by a quota.
I'm a wreck.
horoscope for today
More soulmate activity, increasing into a frenzy
of romance that you might not be used to, let
alone be ready for. If this person is making
deeper commitments than you expected, it's time
to take a break to analyze the depth of this
Guarding Garbage or The Dangers of Dumpster Diving
My usual route to the White Hen involves cutting through an alley, and like
most alleys here, it's lined with dumpsters. Nothing unusual there. The
dumpsters are also chained and padlocked shut. Which is something I had never
seen before I moved to Chicago, and something that I still don't completely
understand. I don't know how many times I've rounded the corner unwrapping a
new pack of smokes and tried to stuff the foil and cellophane under the lids of
one of those dumpsters - a nearly impossible task thanks to those super-duty
chains and padlocks. So I'm left with either tossing the trash on the ground or
stuffing it in my pocket. In a city strewn with trash, does it really make
sense to lock up trash receptacles? I mean, can they possibly make it any
harder to dispose of something properly?
Tonight it's the same old story, except this time when I round the corner I see
two guys, who, judging from their attire did not work at the White Hen, or the
Kinkos next door, or anywhere else. So anyway, these two guys are straining
so hard to get the lid of this dumpster open that they've shucked their jackets
(it's 4° F windchill) and have what appear to be either vagabond
or their carotid arteries about to burst clean through their skin.
Which brings me to a couple of questions:
1) What in the hell could be in a Kinkos/White Hen dumpster that could be worth
all this anguish?
2) Why in the hell do you lock up something you're throwing away?
"Excuse me," Melissa said, "but that is just such bullshit."
"What is bullshit?" Chip said.
"This whole class," she said. "It's just bullshit every week. It's one
critic after another wringing their hands about the state of criticism. Nobody
can ever quite say what's wrong exactly. But they all know it's evil. They
all know 'corporate' is a dirty word. And if somebody's having fun or getting
rich- disgusting! Evil! And it's always the death of this and the death of
that. And people who think they're free aren't 'really' free. An people who
think they're happy aren't really happy . . . Like, the only way you can make
something bad out of an ad that's great for women-which you have to do, because
there has to be something wrong with everything- is to say it's evil to be rich
and evil to work for a corporation, and yes, I know the bell rang." -
The Corrections, pg. 44
. . . and classes start today, and I'm still not completely registered,
and I can't get a U-Pass until I get a complete schedule, and did I
mention it's f-f-f-friggin'
f-f-f-f-freezing?. In ignominy of this insipid 13th day of January, I am
declaring it 'Humorless Monday'. Yes indeed, there will be no
humor today. None.
Speaking of the 2005 Mustang, looks like
Ford did fix that silly looking rear end. Now they just need to tweak
and put it in one of these
voila, a modern day Cobra
Jet Heh It
produces 590 horsepower at 6,500 rpm and 509 foot-pounds of torque at
5500 rpm, and is about 70 pounds lighter than the 5.4.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, in want, when three four-packs I bought,
And poured my first glass of your liquid grains
Clunk and rattle at the end of its draught:
"What the hell," sayeth I, "tis in that can?"
But being too happy in thine happiness,
I drank one . . . and nine or ten more I guess.
In some melodious plan
Of curiosity and fearlessness,
I ripped thee open with the greatest ease.
Twat did I find, in your empty regions?
white plastic ball, delved in your mirth
Tasting of goodness in my repletion,
I savored the sweet sadness of your dearth!
And here I stand and voice this folderol,
"Bullocks to you," I say, "my beer's got balls!"
Have you ever done something out of character? Something so completely
unlike anything you've done before that even you can't believe you did it?
10 years later?
Those who know me, I think, would attest that I'm pretty low key around
people I don't know. I tend to hang with those I know and like, because I'm
pretty awful, really, at doing the small talk thing.
So anyway, it's '93 and I'm in Nashville (yes,
that Nashville) and a friend
and I are leaving the
mall after our weekly trip to Taco Bell. My friend is
just about to turn out of the parking lot when we spot four chicks in a red
Beemer convertible that would make
Genelle Frenoy take a job for the city
cleaning out sewer pipes.
"Yeah!" We've not a chance in hell.
My buddy slides (screeches) through the oncoming traffic in order to pull up
beside them, but the light turns green and they hit the entrance ramp to I-24
west, which, just happens to be our way home.
"Yeah." What the hell are we gonna do, follow them all the way to
who knows where?
Being the most excellent driver he is (remind me to tell you about blindly
crossing five lanes of traffic at an some insane speed sometime) he mashes the
gas 60, 65, 70 . . . 75 . . . 80 . . . And then, were cruising beside them.
What to do, what to do. My 1001 Pick-up Line encyclopedia suddenly seemed
remarkably abridged. I couldn't remember this particular situation being
mentioned. What to do, what to do.
I glance over, four blonde manes blowing seductively in the wind, tanned
appendages draped across the white leather interior. Good God, this is
absurd. What do I sa . . . ahhh, yes, of course.
I start rolling down the window.
"What in the hell are you going to do?"
If ever, anyone wore a shit-eating grin, it was I at that time.
"What the hell are you doing!!?"
I can barely hear him over the 80 mph wind ripping through the car. The
window hits its stop. One last glance at my buddy and I start to crawl up onto
the edge of the door. By this time I have the girls' complete and undivided
attention (well, except for the one driving who is about to give herself
whiplash from the frantic double, triple, and quadruple takes). Four very rich,
very pretty women are staring at me like I'm some kind of crazy person trying
to hand them a cootie. (Well, OK. Point taken, but I do/did not have
"Hey!" Their faces are starting to match the white leather interior, and
one, I swear, is curling up into a fetal position in the backseat.
"Do you come here often?" I yell, literally collapsing back into the car
laughing. The BMW roars off, and I'm certain they broke triple digits in the
"I can't believe you just did that!" My laughter subsides enough to allow
me to see my buddy all slouched down in his seat, peering through the arc of
the steering wheel and the dash, which induces another fit of laughter that
lasted all the way home.
Its a wonder the poor guy ever let me ride with him again.
Everyone's asleep. Except you, sitting in the ponderous silence of the
kitchen. The view from your window is a darkening shade of some movie you can't
quite place. Your mind drifts over the landscape of your past and back to the
trees, painted still and window-framed on your wall. The snow glowing
blueish-white in the moonlight. Its antagonizing peacefulness demands that
something be done, yet it offers no suggestions - a blank screen awaiting your
I'm in a mood where all I want to do is scream.&NBSP; Scream and break stuff.
Scream, break stuff, and empty every bottle of shampoo at Jewel right
there in the middle of aisle six. Ueh. Guess, I'll just go to work.
I've said before that atheist can be just as fanatical, close-minded, and
utterly annoying as religious zealots. You don't believe in God (or a God,
afterlife, or anything). OK. I get it. No need to repeat it every time you
turn around. I don't care. Really. They say people are only fanatical if they
are unsure. No one goes around proclaiming that
is going to take her clothes off.
Which makes me wonder if these people, the fanatically atheist and
fanatically religious, doubt the very beliefs they spout incessantly.
Christians (or, as so cleverly spelled by this individual) may very well be
illogical, but to state that God does not exist because we cannot prove it is
also illogical (the converse is also true, obviously). It is an argumentum ad
ignorantiam, or argument from ignorance. If it cannot be proven that something
does or does not exist (ghosts, aliens, God, One-eyed, one-horned, flying
purple people eaters), then you cannot logically argue either way, hence the
For those of you who weren't aware, I have dedicated my life to making this
world a better place for all of humanity. Yes, I have renounced my
capitalistic ways and I shall now bestow my hard earned knowledge upon
human kind absolutely free of charge*.
that's great," you say, "but what exactly are the
fruits of you labors?"
That, my friend, is an excellent question, and I'm glad you asked. Step
right up and allow me to tell you about my latest creation:
Exploding Ice CubesTM.
Now I can already hear the philistines among you muttering, "Why in
the hell would I want Exploding Ice CubesTM?"
This is also an excellent question, and let me answer by asking you, dear
skeptic, a question of my own: Have you ever found yourself entertaining
guests and suddenly realize the only thing you have to drink is that
gallon of scotch you bought for $5.99?
Yes. That's exactly what I thought.
Yes dear readers, I will now show you not only how to serve that economy
bottle of goat piss scotch without embarrassment, but how to
ensure your guest enjoy it.
Patience eager reader. First, you need one or more ice cube trays.
May I recommend these:
Remove the trays from the freezer and gently twist the tray. When done
correctly, this will induce air bubbles into each of the cubes like
Return the trays to the freezer and shut the door.
Once the ice has frozen completely, simply crack and dispense as you would
ordinary ice cubes. When placed into a room temperature drink the
solid (ice) and gas (air) will expand at different rates, thereby
causing the cubes to shatter with profound 'pop'.
Yes, as a matter of fact, I do have a life. Why do you
Motor Trend has some concept
drawings of the 2005 Mustang. Following the nostalgic lines of
the latest Thunderbird, the 05 Mustang is a strange compilation of
late '60s body styles. It's an interesting design, but they need
to do something with that 280Zesque
rear end. That's just wrong. No word yet if Ford will
improve that anemic OHC 4.6L. Let's hope they take some cues from
Steeda, or at the very least
make the 2005 a 5.0.