Applying for Wageslave Jobs can be Ridiculous

I was cruising the streets looking for a second job to fill the off hours, and there's nothing like looking for work to make you feel pretty worthless.* I applied at four different bar/restaurants, and was wandering through Georgetown looking for a coffee shop that seemed like a decent prospect when I saw a Now Hiring sign in an upscale toy store window. I thought that an educational toy store couldn't be that horrific a workplace, and I was feeling pretty desperate, so I waltzed in and said I was here about the sign. The hipster behind the counter sighed and handed me a sticker with an email address on the back and said, "send your resume and cover letter to this address. You might want to include any references, too." I stepped forward to take the card and bumped the pile of white-painted wood that he was assembling into an organic, low-impact, eco-crib.** I apologized and he sighed again and said, "that's okay." He then grimaced at me in some bizarre attempt at a haughty smile, or maybe a snarl.***

This was the point in which that feeling of utter worthlessness turned into aggravation. If your assembling some expensive, European, organic, low-VOC, high-end, rich douchebag, destined for twenty-four years of private school education before Harvard Business, eco-crib that is WHITE and you have a WHITE-tiled floor, then maybe leaving a stack of pieces in front of your sales counter is a BAD IDEA. I learned long ago that leaving pieces of my LEGO kit, IKEA chip-board furniture, Warhammer tank model, etc, in a high traffice area was a guaranteed way to have those pieces crushed underfoot. If you're the kind of guy that owns/manages/works at a children's toy store that requires a cover letter, resume, and three references to even apply there, then you had best display the kind of forethought and presence to earn all three of those requirements. Simply having a superior attitude and expensive merchandise doesn't allow you to act like an arrogant cobag. You've got to have the ability before you have the attitude.

At my bar job, we watch a variety of news programs before the various sporting events are televised. Aside from Balloon Boy, another frequently run story is how employers are having trouble finding qualified applicants. If you're a children's toy store, even an educational, eco-friendly, organic, etc, etc, children's toy store and you require a cover letter, resume, and three references to even apply there, you may want to rethink your hiring strategy. Here are three simple requirements that would serve you better should you choose to pull your head out of your ass: Can you perform addition and subtraction with a reasonable degree of accuracy? Can you be polite to jerkface customers? Will you be honest with all monetary transactions? The answers to two out of three of these questions can be ascertained with a short quiz and a conversation. The third is a constant risk of all stores, and you should always be wary but also give the benefit of the doubt until you have reason to rescind such trust. Even if you're an uppity, ridiculous toy store that provides educational services and wants to be considered something greater, your storefront employees are there to sell toys and make people feel like coming back to spend more money. They aren't solving world hunger, they're just earning 8.25 an hour with no benefits.

* Except dating, but that's a whole different kind of worthless.
** I shit you not. The box made all three claims.
*** I do both better.

Pizza Night at the Cousins of Somewhat More Determinate Number

It's pizza night at the Cousins of Somewhat More Determinate Number. We're drinking cheap pinot, eating homemade pizza, and listening to hardcore punk. That is just how the COSMDNGS roll. The g and s in that acronym are a classified secret known only to me, Pinko Punko, and certain high-level government appointees. I would dearly love a Genius-sized Big Wheel. I was watching some hilarious keyboard cat, and realized that this would satisfy a lot of of my nutritional and exorcisational necessities. I may have to go make one. You can ask Adorable Girlfriend, I've built some pretty cool shit AKA my bed, out of Congolese mahogany shipping containters. So I'm clearly a dedicated recycler, ladies. At some point in this, you may wonder what the point of this here bloggio was, or is, and to which I can only respond with, which blog have you been reading? The ones in which I get bizarrely randomly insensically emo or the ones in which I get bizarrely randomly insensically tardiloquent about my roommate, Helob the Tarantula.

Second Brain is Zombified

My Blackberry has died, and shuffles on in the half-life of the undead. It receives calls and messages, but the buttons refuse to work.

Update 1: New phone received on Wednesday at 415 pm.
Update 2: New phone zombified sometime between 730 pm and 1130 pm.
Update 3: Second new phone received 345 pm on Thursday.
Update 4: Second new phone continues to work at 745 pm Thursday. Further updates to follow as events develop.
Update 5: Balloon boy found safe and sound, hiding in an attic.
Update 6: Second phone continues to function as of 353 pm Friday.

16

On Monday, I am mailing 16 inches of my hair to a charity organization. It took me two years, one month, and four days to grow. I am desperately hoping that the organization finds it suitable for their purpose. If they don't, I will be sorely disappointed. There was so much effort put into growing all that hair. It's so hard to not get your hair cut for years, and all that brushing.

There's a woman who asked me to hold too much for her tonight. I doubt she even understands why I am not* hurt by her attempts to wound. Some people just have to lash out, but that doesn't mean anyone has to sit around for it.

I am now walking home along the borders of a small national park. I hear the hissing of condominium ventilation systems, and the hooting of owls, and I can not choose between. The vents slither and steam, while the birds swoop and chirp. I am not sure if that's the right word.

* I somehow skipped this rather important modify when writing this post. Never hit send without proofreading. Or while walking.

Stereotypes When Traveling

This is all based on my personal experiences while traveling, and mostly through Eastern Europe in the late '80s.

1: Americans are loud obnoxious pricks.
We are. If you're a normally vociferous person (like me), everyone will hear you coming. Chatting is fine, but keeping it barely audible is best. Think museum-level voices, but everywhere. If you hear someone speaking English but can't see them, they're probably a block away and American. Or hooligans.

2: Stay away from hooligans.
Seriously. You'll just end up dead, broken, or with more knowledge of the Spanish penal system than you'd like.

3: Tourists attract pickpockets.
This applies anywhere you travel. The best thing you can do is have good situational awareness, and keep your important documents in the safest pockets you have.

4: Bring toilet paper.
This is more of an Eastern European recommendation because those commies sure don't like their cornholes. Most of their tp could double as sandpaper. You may find yourself using a public toilet, wondering how did I get here without any toilet paper, and then you'll be sorry.

5: Bring cash.
Credit cards aren't as useful in Europe. This is changing, but slowly. My burser on my last trip only paid for hotel rooms and some train tickets with a credit card, everything else was cash. You can get foreign currency from your bank if you give them enough notice, you can usually get a decent rate, or a better rate than you'll get from a cambio overseas.

6: McDonald's is worse in Europe.
Ok, so the last time I went to a McD's in another country was Turkey in 1987, but still it was horrible. Fucking coffee flavored milkshakes instead of chocolate. No wonder they lost the war.

7: If your flight lands in the morning, stay awake until night.
Best way to get over jet-lag, no matter what hypochondriac punkbitches say about melatonin or seratonin pills.

8: Bring American condoms.
You know your favorite brand, you trust it, so why use some commie condom from a former Soviet republic? Those things probably wouldn't stop a cold, and you wouldn't know the good local brand anyway.

9: Frommer's.
Good enough for Eurotrip, good enough for you.

10: A few words about swimsuits.
It's Europe, you don't need a top, baby.

Finishing Projects

I've been known to spread myself to thin at times. I'm currently working on a short story, a novel, and a couple of screenplays while also trying to find a day job, read three books at a time, proceed to some form of self-awareness, and maybe even find some happiness. Let's not forget my hobbies: two Warhammer 40K armies, mounting a horse head on my wall for a hat rack, dating, and blogging. I should probably focus my efforts so that I can actually finish some of these projects. I think I might be a bit scattered in my efforts, but then I hear about this, and I can only respond with, "lolwut."

Perhaps you may want to finish wrecking the game with Wrath of the Lich King before you go and annihilate it with a Cataclysm. And seriously, did the game really need Gnomes on the Horde side? I predict a whole new wave of dumb jokes on the forums written by kids with in depth knowledge of the find/replace command, and the words "gnome" and "goblin."

Ugghies

One of these years, I am going to learn to recognize when leftovers have gone slightly bad, or die from food poisoning. My record indicates that the latter is the likeliest of the two options.

Or maybe I need to stop reading while on the bus within 20 minutes of eating. Or maybe don't have a pb&j after having the last bits of spaghetti.

Fixing My Internets AKA Re-plumbing the Tubes

I've been adding links to my blog little by little, as I've taken to using it as a one stop place for my favorite time wasting. Since I still have yet to find employment that allows me the luxuries of services that are rapidly becoming utilities, I still have neither broadcast television access nor internet access, and rely almost entirely upon my local library for serious internetting. I can't even pirate a wi-fi network since people in my building are so stingy. Er, I mean, knowledgeable about network security.

Also, while I can peruse some websites on my phone, it is really no replacement for a broadband internet connection, or even a dial-up connection. Reading internet articles on your phone is a lot like reading under the covers when you're twelve and Mom and Dad told you to go to bed. It's bad for your eyes, and you'll end up embarassed when you admit to what you were reading later in life, because Dungeons and Dragons novels are just horrifically embarassing.

I Miss Your Comments, Too

But sending me blank text messages is an odd way to generate more hits, Brando. I'm out looking for a hot dog stand that also sells buckets of cold spring water, when I get back to my neighborhood, I'll hit the library and leave some comments on your hilarious bloggio.

Friday Morning Random: Ghost Jukebox Edition, with Genius Commentary

If you leave the jukebox alone, it plays random songs every twenty minutes. Last Sunday, the jukebox chose the following six songs to play:

1. Elvis - In the Ghetto.
Makes anyone want to drink.

2. Monkees - Daydream Believer
Makes everyone look at the jukebox to see who selected this song.

3. Avant - Separated
Makes everyone go outside to smoke.

4. Four Tops - Need Your Lovin'
Makes all the lonely servers and patrons stare at the wall in regret.

5. John Roe - Izzy
Makes, uh...I can't even remember this song. Maybe it's a psychic trigger and we all have the same 3:43 minute memory gap! Or maybe not.

6. Commodores - Easy
I got nothing.

So there you have it. I'm surprised the 'box didn't toss in any lame country. The 'box will frequently pick Bottom 40 Country Misses and horrible R&B when bored. It seems to only play songs that no one ever selects, as if saying, "put some money in me, or I play more terrible bar music." It's an aural terrorist.

Additional commentary on selected artists and the Jukebox's selection thereof:
Coldplay: A customer reacts to my face when Yellow comes on for the third time in a night by saying, "Wow, you really hate Coldplay." It's like trying to drill a hole in your skull to gain superpowers, except the drilling never stops.

Muse: Coldplay with Enhanced Suck. Ross Perot never imagined how bad the sucking sound could eventually be, but now we know.

Vampire Weekend - A-Punk: Ok, we get it, you're fucking hip. Now shut the fuck up and enable more VW songs, or The Genius is gonna Lou Ferrigno your ass right off the wall.

NOFX: Without Liza & Louise, how can I make Facebook friends with my lesbo coworkers?

Toby Keith: Someday you will face the Wrath of the Beastly Brows, Toby Keith.

Knickelback: Flames. Flames from the side of Res Publica's face.

Journey: I'm gonna hurt you in the no-no place, jukebox.

M.I.A.: If I weren't such a feminist, I might request that guy come beat our jukebox.

Kelly Clarkson: I received a note from Justin to Kelly, and it said only, "I gave up, why can't you?"

Hannah fucking Montana, and the Jonas Brothers: Hah, Disney tries to be all coy, and claim that they don't sell sex to children. Liars. Dirty, rotten, filthy, liars.

Metallica: Three songs from St. Anger, and three songs from the Black Album? Hardly equivalent, but I'm sure the band needed to redo the gold plating on all seventy of their toilets. Guess which three songs play over and over?

Louis Prima: I like this guy. I only play it when I've made more than a bill, and feel good. I don't want to ruin the five songs on the 'box by over-playing them.

MGMT - Kids, followed by PB&J - Young Folks: These two songs play together so often, I am hanging by my fingernails over the abyss of the soul. My rage waits patiently, eagerly, and ravenously to feast upon a delicious supper when the day comes that I can no longer bear these two songs together. It's almost as bad as the Vampire Weekend/Flobots combo. The 'box taunts me by straining to ruin so many bands, and succeeding so thoroughly. I dream of my sweet revenge.

Celebrity Dream Cameo: Ecto-1

I'm not sure how this one started, but my brothers and I were operating a Ghostbusters franchise in the District. We had just finished restoring an old ambulance or hearse to Ghostbusters International standards when we got a call. I tossed my tan BDUs on and jumped in the driver's seat with my brother riding shotgun, and my other brothers in the back seat. I immediately noticed that we had made a slight error when restoring the vehicle because we had installed a bus-sized steering wheel. The wheel was one of those slick, black plastic ones from an old Greyhound or something similar in size, and was approximately three feet across. It did have some nice chrome on it, though. The seat was also a little broken, so that it was stuck leaning back to far to really see out of the window. I either had to lean forward and hold my arms out comically far to drive, or lean back and drive using the bottom ten degrees of the wheel and let my brother's screaming guide my driving. At one point, I turned onto a one-way street and had to dodge a few cars before getting fed up and turning on the vintage lights and sirens. They sounded exactly like the original Ecto-1, probably because of the MP3 player hooked up to the sirens and stereo. Cars began getting out of our way, but I still had to bump onto the sidewalk for a couple blocks. I even cut a huge u-turn in the middle of an intersection to make it to our destination, people, segways, and cars were leaping out of the way. Turns out our first caper was at the Museum of American History. I woke up at this point, but I'm betting we had to go clear out all of the ghosts leftover from those "Night at the Museum" movies.

Leave a Message, Fool!

Is it really so hard to leave a simple message after calling someone and missing them? I've been getting a lot of calls lately from numbers I don't recognize, and even from some "Private" numbers, but no one leaves a message. If you don't leave a message, how the hell am I supposed to know to call back or whatever? Maybe Verizon is just messing with me.

Peter Coyote versus James Woods: Totally Tarantula Tuesday Celebrity Edition

Nature show voice-overs versus Family Guy cameos.
Advantage: James Woods.

Making wolves interesting versus looking vaguely sinister.
Advantage: Tie, because both are cool.

Sphere versus Contact.
Advantage: The only person in the world to have seen neither, His Holiness the Dalai Lama.

Having a name evocative of the rugged American West versus having a name evocative of a metaphor about details and plans.
Advantage: Peter Coyote

The Verdict: His Holiness wins! Enlightenment is the only path.

Fooled you!

Not a Great Idea, Nor a Great Rationale

My boss told the Real World crew that it wasn't his decision, but he would prefer if they stayed out of his bar, due to their extreme propensity for causing fights in every bar they visit.* I told him that I would come in on a day off to wait on the Real World kids. I had two goals beyond making money when I got this job: the first being to drink a lot of new beers and the other to win a bar brawl. So far, all I've done is frighten shitty tippers and stare down morons. I'm not a violent man, but I would happily issue justified beatings in order to end a brawl.

* According to an inside source, some punches were thrown at Buffalo Billiards when the kids went there.

Creatures of the Night

I have never been sure of my habits. Am I a day-sider masquerading as a night-timer, or a night-timer with day-side longing? Or am I some desperately bisexual crepuscular fiend, hiding in the fringes, receiving no convincing arguments from either side, and yet hoping for any indication of a hoped-for success in any lifestyle? Whichever the case, I've still got more miles to go before the comfort of my bed, and, oddly enough, a few graveyards to cross on my way, like a goth Jimmy Clif.

Evening in the Park

I'm lying on a picnic table in Battery Kemble Park, listening to the wind rustle the leaves. The air is unusually cool for September, and the clouds drip now and then. To the east, the city's glow casts a depressing orange on the vaporous ceiling in an ugly false dawn. The crickets chirp, calling a desperate, last hope for sex before death. The breeze tosses my damp frizzled hair about my face, and I ignore it. Dead trees claw at the sky, silent accusers. The sky is a mottled grey, slowly morphing and mutating as my eyes adjust and the wind exerts its will.

Depending on your definition of parallel universes, on a planet n meters away from my spot, there is someone extremely similar to me, lying on an extremely similar picnic table, thinking extremely similar thoughts, asking extremely similar questions, and just as hopefully depressed about the future. I think the Germans probably have a word for this feeling, but it is 93 characters long and I can't do umlauts on my phone.

Penny Arcade Predicts the Summer Blockbuster

This comic from February 19, 2009 is mighty impressive. It was written in reference to a Resident Evil trailer that I was unable to view at the library, but I was immediately reminded of while watching District 9. I have been describing D9 as apartheid with ray guns. Weeks later, that movie still sits at my number one spot. I disagree thoroughly with Howard Tayler's rankings, but that's Freedom of Speech in action and I thoroughly agree with that principle.

I haven't seen Gamer, G.I. Joe: the Rise of Cobra, Wolverine, Land of the Lost, or Angels & Demons (nor will I, Dan Brown blows) but I will eventually. I have seen all of Trueblood season 1, and the shame runs deep as the darkest parts of your soul.

The National Archives of Amateur Porn

Or, The Secret Service Would Prefer a Penis-Free Evening in Lafayette Park

It was the end of a long, slow night at work when she walked past my seat, and perched on a bar stool. Petite, blonde, and wearing an entirely pink* outfit, she looked simultaneously lost and totally confident. My manager asked if I had noticed the woman, whom we'll call Violet, and I said yes. She then asked how old I thought Violet was, so I said, "let me get my shift** and I'll go find out."
"Oooh, Chuckles, don't embarrass yourself," she said as I left to get my beer.

I sit down one stool away from Violet, and proceed to sip my beer and my water. I glance over a couple times, Violet catches my glances, and reciprocates. At this point in time, I can not be certain what I said to start the conversation, but I know it was going well until a tremendous fool, whom we'll call Cuban Pete, interrupted. We had been talking about faith, religion, and belief when Cuban Pete turned around and asked, "who talks about God at a bar?" Before I can say anything, Violet is handling the situation.

I am then witness to a full-throttle ego destruction as Cuban Pete tries to use lines designed to prey on a woman's insecurities*** on Violet and she retaliates with a withering display of intellectual firepower. She wrecks him so handily, and he is so utterly unaware of himself, that I just sit there and laugh at him. I know when to shut up and watch. Eventually Cuban Pete's friends show up and try to drag him away, and we duck out the back while Pete was trying to tell his friends that he was going home with Violet.

While leaving through the back exit, we run into my asshole boss who proceeds to try yelling at Violet, "Hey little girl, what the hell? Where you going? No way!" Violet walks into the downstairs entrance as I tell the Boss quite firmly that "I got this, it's under control. Go back in your office, I got this. Go back in your office!" Boss stops and stares at me, and then walks off muttering. I sit Violet down at the bar, run upstairs for my bag where I find my boss ranting about me and "the crazy teenager." I grab my bag and say, "she's no teenager. I'll see everyone tomorrow." Violet and I leave for the Big Hunt.

At the Hunt, we each have a Bell's Oberon and a great conversation. The topics range wildly, and humorously, despite a complete lack of discussion about flaky fish. If I remember correctly, we were discussing our varied education in dancing when a neighboring table asked us about the aforementioned piscine delights. Violet is classically trained in ballet, while I was classically trained in ballroom, in the same way that Animal House is a classic.

After a pleasant time on the Hunt's roof patio, we leave and I offer to walk her to her hotel. She thought it was near a park, and as we approach the address, we see the Washington Monument peeking over some rooftops. A block or so beyond her hotel is Lafayette Park and the White House, so we mosey over. Violet worries that it might be off limits after dark, but three bicycle cops say otherwise. We sit down in the dewy grass near the fountains and continue chatting.

At this point in the evening, I am thinking two things: holy shit, this woman is attractive both mentally and physically, and I doubt we're going to make out with all of these cops walking around. Ninety seconds later, the latter was proven wrong when Violet pushed me onto my back and leapt on top of me. I would proceed with details except that there are certain things that I would prefer to keep to myself, specifically the way her skin smelled (lovely), the way her blonde hair caught the light of the fountains (beautifully), and the way she felt in my arms (wonderful). After that, all I could think about was whether an FOI request would get me the footage from the security cameras because no one will ever believe this happened.

After an unknown period of time, subject to the L.L. Cool J Theory of Relativity,**** a police officer crept up to the far side of the fountain in his SUV and then sauntered over to us. Violet slid off me, and we said good evening to the young officer. "Just checking in folks, thought I saw, uh, something that looked like, um, oral going on, and that's, uh, illegal, but everything is all put away, so we're okay." Nothing of the sort was going on, I'm a gentleman and Violet is not that kind of lady, but he's got a job to do and it was just dark enough to leave some doubt. I am not sure who felt more awkward, but I was ready to jump up and demand a high-five.

Violet and I ask the cop about the rules on make-outs in the park. Apparently, the rules about nudity in the District are far more lax than I had previously thought. As long as the genitals are clothed, anything goes! No acts deemed lewd are permitted however, hence the diligent officer's investigation of any possible intimate internship.

After a hilariously awkward conversation about catching people fucking in the park not twenty minutes prior and other nights of streakers at the Lincoln Memorial, the officer left saying, "good night. And good luck, dude! But, uh, not here, please." Violet undid several more buttons on her shirt now that we understood the rules and I am now Agnostic, because I was ready to proselytize for whichever deity smiled upon me at that moment. I won't divulge more details because incoming links from Filthbot may be funny, but the comments that result are sorta grody. I will say that we were chaste, and I will also say that as good a time was had as could be had without requiring a lawyer. I walked Violet to her hotel, she kissed me goodnight, and I walked home wishing I could high-five all my buddies. Or even the men I passed on the street. The night's events are the top of the list of All Time Best-Ever Events Without Nudity, The Genius Edition, and even pretty high on the Nudity Required version of the list.

Unfortunately, the rest of Saturday was an unending string of missed connections and miscommunications. I had a small voice in my head saying that I would never hear from Violet again, and sent her an poorly-worded email about meeting up on Saturday night. When I wrote the email, I expected it to bounce or never receive a response. It was far more blase than I felt. Over the course of the evening, the combination of working in a basement and missing calls and messages resulted in an enormous level of frustration in both Violet and I. I thought she knew I was working, and she thought I was playing it cool. If she could have seen me obsessively checking my messages every twenty minutes and rebooting my phone to double check that it was actually downloading messages, she would know that I was being anything but cool. At one point, I missed her call by three minutes. The people smoking on the stoop all jumped when I shouted in dismay.

The string of emails that followed on Sunday and into the night were mixed in tone. Like so many emails, if she was smiling when she wrote them Violet is hilarious. If she was frowning, then I had to wonder why she was bothering. Most women I piss off so thoroughly simply stop communicating with me. Fortunately, I seem to have convinced her that I am not a giant jerkfaced asshole, and she seems amenable to giving me another chance the next time she is in town.

I hope the weather is still warm because I hear the Jefferson Memorial is beautiful by night.

* Or blue. Definitely a pastel to my cursed eyes. Probably both pink and blue.
** Victory Prima Pils.
*** This technique had probably worked well with the Bachelorette party he and his pals had been hitting on, but Cuban Pete was too drunk to notice that he had just gotten himself unlaid by starting this.
**** As related in Deep Blue Sea, "Get your hands on a hot pan, and a second can last an hour. Get your hands on a hot woman, and a night can disappear in a second."

Embarassed, But Not Really

You can't keep the lessons and forget the incidents. I don't know if I would if I could.

My Birthday is Less Than Twelve Months Away

But you can still buy me one of these for an early gift.*

* Early birthday gift giving does not exempt you from the Annual End-of-Year Gift Tithing.

Guest Blogger

The other day I was walking out of work with a co-worker. When it was time to say good bye we awkwardly hugged, as only co-workers can do, said good bye and then proceeded to walk down the street in the same direction.

One time I peed on my hand by accident on the way to a keg party. I was young and in college and hopeful of a one night stand so I had to rub my pee-stinky hand in people garden flowers on the way there.

I woke up this morning and poured my cereal into a bowl, then I realized we had no milk so I had to pour it back into the box. Fuck my life.

This week was really hectic at work and we had this big deadline. I don't get paid enough to care about deadlines and I think my boss knows this so he sent us an email that started like this:

Guys – I can feel the progress. Can you feel it?? I can feel the energy pulsating from our pods!!

Great progress was made last week and I’ve seen firsthand things progress quite a bit over the last two days. I love the activity guys – love it!

I think it had the opposite effect that he wanted. He even ended the email like this:
Thanks guys – only one thing left to say before I leave, and that is…

BRING IT!

Whatever, David Brent...

You know you've got to get a new job when you log in password at work is 'fuckthisplace.'

My last bit of truth: This blog has been high-jacked!

***Editor's note: This post was written by my brother and i think he was attempting to tap into the Tarantula Preserves.

Dexter Fletcher Appreciation Day is August 31

You might not have heard of this day, but it's happened every year since 1999. Break out your favorite Dexter Fletcher movies and series, call your friends, pop the corn, and crack a case cuz Dexter Fletcher Day is here! This year's curriculum at Casa del Genius is Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels, Doom, and then the best of Band of Brothers.

Tell the world how you celebrate DF-Day at your "flat" in the comments.

One Biomedical Ethics Class Is Not Enough

For me to be an effective judge or even say what I would have done. Ginger-Talk alerted me to this story, and I am heading off to find a paper copy as it will probably disappear behind the NYT subscriber wall soon.

I Just Wet Myself

I am going to go change my underwear after watching the Descent: Part 2 trailer. Better break out the Gold Bond.

A Dark and Stormy Face

I yelled at some people last night. It felt fantastic. Their expressions were an amusing blend of shock, anger, and fright. They said nothing in response. Let me set the situation for you.

The management has steadfastly refused to allow us to use any automatic gratuity on large groups, like every other damn restaraunt in the country. They think auto-grats reduce the customer's desire to spend, when all this policy has done so far is reduce our tip percentage. Numerous horrific situations occur: splitting checks 25 ways, only to receive tips of less than dollar from each; hosting 45 people and having them leave piecemeal, some leaving without pitching in, and pissing off their friends who proceed to take that out on the tip; large groups of cocky, aggressive, asshole Euro-trash hassling you all night long and waltzing out while expecting you to be pleased with the change from a dollar on a 200 dollar tab, and etc.

Management encourages the servers to be upfront with our customers if they leave less than a ten percent tip. "Talk to them, ask them why they're tipping so poorly, and I'm sure they'll tip up," they say as they leave at 430 in the afternoon. I find this to be the ultimate in Neocon Bullshit in the Workplace at the personal level. Passing the responsibility for our salary onto us, when the salary is dependent on a customer's good feeling is a perfect blame the victim. Without automatic gratuity for large tables, you encourage poor tips. There is no accountability. These managers also steadfastly refuse to spend any money on upkeep, so the place is a shithole, further encouraging poor tips. How would you feel if you had a great time, gotten great service, gotten drunk, and fucked up your math, and are then presented with a guilt trip from your waiter? I would not be pleased. Having tried this at least twice a week in the last ten weeks, it has only worked once. Cussing out bad tippers when they return a few days later works is our only recourse, and works excellently, if you're aiming for catharsis, but not so well if you want tips. Unless you scare the bejesus out of the kids.

Last night, not only did I receive a pocketful of change from a table after waiting on them for two-and-a-half hours, but a friend and nice person received a shitty tip from a jerkface asshole, after he and his friends had been drinking for several hours. He left a ten dollar tip on his one hundred dollar portion of the bill. Four of his ladyfriends left no tip whatsoever.* This server, we'll call her Rapali, politely asked if there was some way she could improve her service because she must have done something wrong to receive such a poor tip. Jerkface then proceeds to apologize, and even go so far as to say, "Don't worry, I got your back." He then changed his tip to five dollars and then they left. He also left a note about how "rude and inapppropate"** he found her question. Reading this note, I felt my brain turn off and my testosterone surge. My hands gripped an invisible beater stick, and my face...well, I'm not sure what it looked like, but the bartender shouted, "No! Chuckles, don't!" as I stormed out the door. I caught up to the group at the corner, where they well all laughing about how they had treated Rapali. I stopped ten feet away,*** and shouted, "I hope you fuckers aren't fucking planning on coming back, ya fucking douchebags!" Obama probably heard me. In Hawai'i. They stared at me in horror and astonishment while I glared, and then turned around and stalked back to my office. They shouted nothing at my back, which was the healthy choice for all of us.

It felt wonderful to give someone a deserved yelling, and I would have loved to continue screaming obscenities, but I would have worked myself into an arrest-worthy action. That would have been less than wonderful. Anyone want to take odds on me and an aneurysm? Damn, I need a new job.

* I've been told many times by different female servers that they hate waiting on predominately female tables. I have not heard the same from male servers with male tables. I have good luck and bad luck with tables and call it as such.
** Yup, he couldn't even spell inappropriate. I wonder if he can spell cobag.
*** If I had moved within arms' reach, I would probably have needed to make my one phone call. Furious doesn't begin to describe, more like Candidate for Inglourious Basterd.

My New Career in Advertising Beckons

A coworker and I were riffing on the wonders of Gold Bond in our steamy, seedy place of business. In addition to debating the merits of various application styles, we wrote a few ads that would probably only ever air on a short-lived, summer-replacement sketch comedy show. On HBO. In between Taxicab Confessions 47: The Long Ride Home, and Real Sex with Dolls 11: Real Girl on Real Girl. Here are some slogans I came up with on the bus this afternoon:

Gold Bond: Keeps your balls cold without freezing your nuts off.

Gold Bond: Keeps you dry until you want to get wet.

Gold Bond: For those men who know what "not so fresh" feels like.

Gold Bond: Feels good on your butthole. Real good.*

Gold Bond: Strong enough for a bear's balls, made for a man's. Bear-Men may also apply.

**Gold Bond: The average crotch is a stanky, sweaty 170 degrees fahrenheit, but a Gold Bond crotch feels like a breezy 70 degrees.

Take the Hundred Degree Challenge! If your balls don't feel one hundred degrees cooler after a single dusting of Gold Bond Crotch Powder, we'll send you a bottle of Gold Bond Medicated Crotch Aftershave!

I also invented some new Gold Bond products:

Sandalwood-Scented Gold Bond for the adventuring man. "For those Hemingway days...and nights."

Whiskey-Scented Gold Bond for the gentleman. "Who doesn't want to smell like Sean Connery?"

*This one comes courtesy of the barback.
**This is more of a marketing campaign than a slogan. Sorry.
***Please don't sue me for this, I write this from love. Plus I'm broke.

Thanks, But No Thanks

I really appreciate all the help that people are giving me as I continue to look for a fruitful job. As usual, some of the help is good and some of the help...means well. The number of articles I've read about tech sector jobs, and other careers that are so far removed from my life and skills, would bore you. They bore me. I am not, and never will be, a programmer or coder. I learned in college that computers are fun and useful, but that my mindset is not quite right for programming. Maybe I should enroll in expensive software classes, but three to five years of classes later, most of these jobs are going to be filled. I have no drive to be a programmer, and I know what happens to me when I am not motivated in a job.

When you're looking for work, there's the job you take while you seek the job you want. Knowing the difference is important for your happiness and sanity. I am kept motivated in my current job by that irritating carrot called tips, and simultaneously motivated by the same rotten carrot to find a different job, a job in the career I enjoy. You've got to know your bliss to follow it.

Salt on the Wound: The Return of Starla

She came back tonight. If I've had more awkward moments, I can not recall. We smiled and joked and everyone, including her companion "Tom," was left scratching their heads, and asking me what the hell that was about. I would find the whole thing far more amusing if I weren't so oddly stuck on her. Why do some people linger in our minds? Why do I see her eyes when I close mine? I don't even know her name, nor harbor any hope to ever learn it. I think I just answered my question. I do love a challenge. Maybe we'll run into each other at the IPK again.

Mr. Show is Not Mr. Saturday Night

I don't know exactly when I confused these two, but I bet it was in college. Anyroad, some of my coworkers call me Charles McCutchence. Watching selected episodes from season four, I haven't laughed so hard and for so long since my first viewing of Orgazmo.

I have seasons one through three in my temporary possession, and I will watch them over the next two weeks. Hopefully, these twenty episodes should keep my spirits on a somewhat even keel. Shit does have a habit of piling on, doesn't it?

This Summer's Movies, Ranked in Order of Preference

1. District 9 (OMGWTFBBQPWND!)
2. (500) Days of Summer (For Zooey Deschanel, I too would suffer.)
3. Up (You can't prove that I cried, so stop lying.)
4. Bruno (Haha, penis!)
5. The Hangover (A close match between these two.)
6. Star Trek (Woulda been higher if there had been a single flying leg kick.)
7. Terminator: Salvation (Opening scene was stupid, and the trailers gave away too much.)
8. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (Cutting the brawl at the end? Inexcusable.)
9. Ice Age 3 (Not offensive, just not funny either.)
10. Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (Why hasn't there been more outcry about the Shuck & Jive twins? Offensive as hell.)

Update to the Post About the Best Worst Things Said (To Me) During a Breakup

#2: "Call me when you have money."
It wasn't "I'm sorry things are tough right now, call me when things improve." It wasn't "hey, I'm kinda broke too, let's check out those museums you suggested." Nor was it "that's really awful, let me buy you a drink tonight." Considering the rather extreme difference in income, I would still have been a complete cad to have asked her to pay more than half of any bill. Instead, I suggested a number of free activities for us to do on our next date, and she responded with, "call me when you have money." Six words that said so much.

I have not wondered why she doesn't come by my office for drinks anymore.

I will link to the original post when I can. Sent from my crackberry, or more appropo, my pornberry.

My Post About Air Guitar

The show was amazing. I am currently struggling to overcome some technical difficulties in posting pictures. I will have an entire Flickr album dedicated to really blurry cell phone pictures as soon as I can get the library computers to cooperate.

In the meantime, John Bustine has a show at Comet in Van Ness tonight! The cover is only $5. Matt Hemerlein is also doing a show tonight, but with a Nigerian* metal guitarist, at a venue near 1st and T. Unfortunately, that is all the information I have. Having checked myspace and his web site, I am stymied by this old clunker of a library terminal.

*I hope I am remembering that correctly. I think the guy plays with Sons of Osiris? I ran into Matt on the street after having a couple beers with some of the lads. There may have also been some karaoke.

Toll

One (1) acre of corn, cob consumed.
One (1) herd of cows, hamburger consumed.
One (1) orchard of cherries, canned, dried, and whole consumed.
One (1) litter of pork, bratwurst consumed.
Two (2) toilets, interior destroyed.

I think the Ernest Nesingwary stuff is for vacations that start in the dumps. This one was a lot of fun and I was not in the dumps when it started. I was also too busy to blog much.

Toys of the Golden Age

It may not be my golden age, but someone else is entering a new golden age with my toys. Playmobile, Legos, G.I.Joe, Visionaries, Dinoriders, Construx, Batman, Wolverine, some constructible dinosaur skeletons with cavemen riders*, vintage Transformers**, all have experienced a renewed happiness as their purpose entertains a new generation. I have spent a lot of time finding capes, scabbards, swords, blue 2 by 4s, black 1 by 6s, wings, jets, rayguns, yellow hands, black hands, red helmets, green torsoes, hats, shoes, gloves, and answered every form of the question, what is this for?

In the face of this onslaught of pure childhood bliss, punctuated by short, loud, periods of utter wailing despair, I have been unable to channel my usual voice of vacation. I'll see if I can dredge him up after today's bike ride and beaching.

I will say that I seem to have brought the best kind of rain. The storms have hit between the hours of midnight and 8 am. The land is thirsty and we do what we can.

*No doubt a product of the creationist movement of the '80s.

**Jazz and, uh, Sideswipe? The Autobot cop car.

Free Heroin for Psychos

"A London-based shrink named Dr Richard Graham wants to create an all-psychiatrist guild for World of Warcraft to treat 'addiction' to the game, in the game. And he wants them all to get free accounts. He has called on Blizzard Entertainment, the company that makes World of Warcraft, to waive or discount the costs associated with joining the game so that therapists can more easily communicate with at-risk players in their preferred environment.

'We will be launching this project by the end of the year. I think it's already clear that psychiatrists will have to stay within the parameters of the game. They certainly wouldn't be wandering around the game in white coats and would have to use the same characters available to other players,' said Dr Graham.

'Of course one problem we're going to have to overcome is that while a psychiatrist may excel in what they do in the real world, they're probably not going to be very good at playing World of Warcraft. We may have to work at that if we are going to get through to those who play this game for hours at end.'"

In related news, addiction counselors everywhere are supporting this effort. They are also demanding tons of drugs, so that they can more effectively counsel addicts, as addicts.

Thanks to Ginger Snaps for the article. Ernest Nesingwary Emulation to start tomorrow.

Coincidence...or Fate?

Having just seen (500) Days of Summer, I found it amusing that, in the space of a city block, I pass a man smoking pot in the shadows of the bushes by his stoop, and then an office building wherein the security guard was watching Weeds with his laptop.

I don't believe in fate because it interferes too much with free will. I do believe in Infinity and Serendipity. The first being the sum total of all occurrences, and the second being the chance that any one of those occurrences happening to you. You can affect both through your own actions. A job, or love/heartache, isn't likely to find you if you sit in your apartment all day. None of this is particularly original, nor does it explain why I was the only one laughing at more than six scenes of this movie. I thoroughly enjoyed this movie, and I was surprised by how much I had felt in my own life on both sides of the relationship. Damn good job.

I would recommend this movie to any man, but not necessarily to any couple. I am not sure how well this would resonate with a woman seeking solace. Anyone married to their college girlfriend would not appreciate this the way I did. Also, such people cheated at life. Yeah, I said it.

Birthday Blues

Since running from the Sandmen last Thursday, I have had little reason to smile. Today's Questionable Content made me smirk while I cruised the Infonet, hoping to find some clue to Sanctuary. Perhaps the residents semi-mystical Land of D'Airy will have some wisdom to empart, beyond the hint "upward, always upward," before I push onward and upward to Sanctuary.

The Sandmen are heartless and Carousel is a sham! I will persevere.

Another Birthday Has Ended

What is it with me and rain? Raining during my attempt to watch the dawn at the beach, and raining during my planned birthday at Fort Reno last night. So we played ping pong instead, which was fun.

I refrained from getting maudlin, or composing any horrific poetry. Nor did I repeat the spledorous ludicrosity of previous years. Also, Screen on the Green is back for a small run, so that's cool.

Suspensions

So I just tried to copy and paste my Netflix queue into a Word document. Either the version of Word (2003, allegedly) is in desperate need of updating, or it hates tables. I am betting both are the problem, as I have dealt with tables before in Word and they suck, and since these library machines never get updated. How hard is it to enable these things to update once a week, or even once a month? These computers are less stable than Fallout 3.

Boardwalk Food at Rehoboth Beach, DE: a mini snorkel

Starter: Top Dog's Chicago Top Dog.
I thought I would start with a classic, since I love Chicago-style hot dogs. Top Dog tried really hard to capture the essence, but ultimately failed. They had the right relish and celery salt, but there was lettuce and diced tomato on the dog. To say nothing of the total lack of hot peppers or a pickle spear would be a disservice to Chicago dog's everywhere, because a hot dog isn't Chicago-style without these two items. Overall grade: a generous C-

Salad Course: Thrasher's Boardwalk Fries
If you skip Thrasher&'s, you are skipping the beach in the words &"beach trip." Thick cut, peanut oil fried, slightly seasoned, some small sections of intact potato skin, with a consumer added dash of salt. Thrasher's does a brisk enough business that each serving is practically fried to order, and the best fries I've had since the last time I went to the beach. The flock of seagulls harassing me for some fries and the booming of the t-shirt store's shitty techno remixes of current shitty radio songs kills the mood a tad. Overall grade: A-

Main Course: Buffet of Eye Candy
AG would murder me if I went into any detail. Overall grade: B+

Dessert Course: Dolle's Fudge
I purchased three pounds of fudge in chocolate, peanut butter and chocolate, vanilla, and chocolate nut. I can't really describe the fudge other than to say that I meant to bring some back to a friend in the city, but none survived the trip to the car. In other words, I boughted you some fudge, but I eated it. Overall Grade: A

Unrelated addendum: Of course, I took a ton of pictures of the food. However, I used Pinko Punko's camera and that contraption seems incapable of downloading photos. PP probably has some excuse for this, but whatever it is, it's a bad lie to cover for his laziness.

Rain on My Parade, God? Urine for a Beating

I finally dragged my ass out of bed to watch the dawn break over the Atlantic Ocean this morning at half past holy fuck it's early. I dressed and was about to stumble downstairs for my shoes and then proceed to the beach when I realized it was raining. Raining hard. Things slowly turned over in my head and then I ran around closing a few windows and collecting the cushions off the furniture on the porch. The one thing my hosts had asked that I do before leaving was to move all the cushions on the porch to the house to prevent them from getting wet. All I can say is that if I hadn't woken up early to see the non-dawn, I wouldn't have heard the rain.

As for the suspects that ruined my dawn-watching, the urine is being frozen as I type. St. Peter is going to find a strange odor when he reports for work one of these days.

Impromptu Beaching

I drove to the beach yesterday. I sat on the beach today. I forgot to apply lotion and am feeling a little overdone. I am also tired from sleeping 12 hours last night and into this morning. I haven't slept so long in at least 8 months. I feel fantastic, except for the radiation-burned parts of me. Despite being broke, underemployed, broken, and almost beaten, I live a charmed life at times. Thanks to my brother for the use of his car while he is off visiting the Motherland.

My expeditious return to darkest Wisconsin begins sometime next week. And yes, I did need a brief vacation before my vacation. I almost regret leaving my manservant, butler, staff, and entourage behind on this minor excursion as I have no one to apply lotion to my back.

Almost Nine Months Clean

August 6 will nine months clean for me. Clean of the scourge of relationships the world over. Clean of the perfect addiction for people like me. Clean of the reason I could never lose weeight before. Clean of an activity that consumed straights weeks of real time and years of subjective time. Clean of the World of Warcraft.

I'm getting the shakes, man. I just need a little something to occupy my time. Ideally, this something should be female, at least 5'6," own a bike, like music and concerts, and like Air Guitar.

Anybody Got Any Drones They Want to Declare?

DERA ISMAIL KHAN, Pakistan – Suspected U.S. drones launched two missile attacks on Taliban targets in the South Waziristan tribal region on Wednesday, killing at least 45 militants in the latest in a barrage of strikes close to the Afghan border, intelligence officials said.

"Suspected U.S. drones..." This construction doesn't make much sense to me. Are there other drones flying around Pakistani airspace? Are the skies above Waziristan full of robot airplanes of questionable nationality^*? If we are meant to suspect the origin of the missile strikes, then a different wording would be more appropriate and less confusing. Perhaps:

"Two missile attacks on Taliban targets in the South Waziristan tribal region killed at least 45 militants, according to intelligence officials. The missiles may have been fired by U.S. drones being operated in cooperation with Pakistani military efforts to weaken the..." etc, etc, etc.

As it is now, I am left to wonder when the suspected drones will be brought in for questioning, and possibly charged with some crime.

* I bet it was those sheisty Libyans. Those sketchy cobags are constantly sending invisible drones around to check up on me. THERE'S ONE NOW! No, wait, it's gone.

Rice and Beans, Genius Style

If you use these ingredients:
Long grain brown rice, one cup or so
Pinto beans, more than one but less than a whole bag
Black beans, maybe twice as many as pinto
Kidney beans, one third as many as the black but no more than half as many of the Pinto
Spices, at least three times as many as of different types of beans but only 1/100 of the mass of the total bean mass
Diced green chilis and tomatoes, one can

Given that the beans have been soaking overnight in filtered tap water, and that the rice is from place or places unknown, and that the chilis and tomato mixture is in a 14.5 oz can, and that Al Gore won a Noble Prize (shared), calculate the carbon footprint of the above meal. Be sure to include methane emissions in your summation.

Tucker Carlson: JUST TRY AND GET ME FIRED FOR THIS, COBAG

Tucker Carlson has once again proved how much of a total hosebeast scumbag he is. At least he's consistent. He has always claimed to be an ardent libertarian but has consistently spoken and behaved like a classic neo-con.

To paraphrase: "Because I don't agree with the way some people in the district vote, they should no longer be able to exercise that right."

It isn't like Barry is being elected to a mayoral position every other term, it is a council position. Given the governmental set-up here, Congress can override anything the Council does anyway.

To paraphrase, again: "I love my little corner of DC and all the restaurants that I go to because they make me feel special. Especially the ones that let me beat up gay men in the bathroom."

If I find him beating on anyone in the bathroom at my new office, I will immediately proceed to mop the urine soaked tiles with his face. Maybe his bowtie, too.

Holiday Crowds

Here's to hoping they flock to my bar and tip well. Or even just a solid 15%. I wonder if there's a pool I can go to this weekend, it would be nice to get some sun and water in between shifts. I can get sun in my glade by the canal, but I can't go swimming there because of the murderous rapids.

Addendum: I was going to Ray's Hell Burger long before President Obama went there. It's a great place to grab an economical and fucking tasty meal before going to the First Mondays Show at Iota. Just so we're clear. Ask dontEATnachos, he'll tell you that I didn't even know about this until today. I suggested Ray's as a place for a good burger, and possibly as an capstone to a burger trifecta (Rockland's, Five Guys, and then Ray's) and he directed my attention to that article.

Showdown at IPK Corral

Last Tuesday's sighting of Starla (Jimmy's Girl from Saturday a week past) must now be filed as a fake sighting. That must have been some other attractive blonde DC lady. Given "Starla's" reaction to our accidental meeting in the Italian Pizza Kitchen (IPK) of just a few short minutes ago, that can't have been her a week ago.

I walk in to the IPK with my brother and cousin to pick up our pizza and there she is sitting with some other friends. Remembering Pinko Punko's advice, I tried to smile at her when we both noticed each other. I smiled and and she smiled back. It lasted about 3 seconds before I started laughing and said, "Ok! That's it! That's fucking it!" I walk out laughing and apparently, with a look on my face that told my brother and cousin that I was about to murder somebody. My cousin even asked me, "so, who are we about to get in a fight with?" This only reinforces my view of myself that maybe I should make an effort to distinguish my angry eyes from my laughing eyes.

After several minutes of awkward glances and smiles, and multiple questions about just what the fuck was going on, and why the fuck was that table full of people staring at me, I asked "Starla" if Jimmy was out with her. She said no, to which I asked her if Jimmy ever went out with her, or if he just stayed in watching TV. She kinda smiled and then asked if I had finished my book. I said that I had indeed and that it was alright but no great source of enlightenment. She then asked if she could take a picture with me.

How could I say no and not look like an angry asshole? Or even more of an angry bastard then my brother and cousin already thought I was. So the picture was taken and we parted ways with a "see you around" and a "have a good night."

My luck is fucking weird.

How Long Indeed?

How long before panel 5 is a t-shirt? I bet someone on the forums requested it 30 seconds after it was uploaded. Not to be bitter, but I'd rather inspire the feelings than wear the shirt.

To Do List For July 2009

Memorize the lyrics to Red Dwarf
Memorize the lyrics to Puff the Magic Dragon
Memorize the lyrics to The Ballad of Big Snake and Mister Frog by John Bustine
Buy a plane ticket
Get two weeks off work
Finish another short story
Flog the quartermaster if he fails to bring enough sunscreen
Charge the cattle prod batteries, and the replacement batteries
Check the sights on my rifle collection
Flog the quartermaster if he fails to purchase enough ammunition for the rifle collection
Have the muleskinner check the animals
Keep up the healthy diet and Charles Atlas exercises
***Sent from my trusty short-wave radio***

Totally Tarantula Tuesdays: Monday Morning "Cool in Service" Edition

You know what's cool about the service industry? The women. Ok, well the sane ones are cool, the batshit horse/coke addicts aren't. The women who dress like hookers and then bitch about some dude staring at her tatas can also be filed as not cool. So aside from those two types, who make up 95% of the women, the women in the service industry can be pretty boss.

You know what else is cool? The drugs. Lotsa drugs. Ricockulous amounts of drugs. Drugs pouring over the hillside in a torrent of stoned jackasses. Ok, maybe they went a little far on the drugs, but that's a Squidbillies reference for those in the back.

You know what else is cool? Insomnia and apathy. No one worries about you if you haven't sleep since Friday, that's just how the weekend goes. Now that it is Monday, I wouldn't mind being able to sleep, but I can wait for another 15 to 16 hours. I've got shit to do today.

You know what else is cool, and this will really rock your face? All the famous people! OMG! I carded Brooke Shields in February and she was SO not happy about it. Haha! She didn't know we have a 100% I.d. check policy! Hee! So yeah, I didn't recognize her at first, and just thought she looked a lot like Brooke Shields, and she looked great, but still rules is rules, ma'am. So yeah, but a jackass is still my thing when I can justify it. Which is pretty much always. That might have been better off left implied, but if you look at my body of work, you'll see I've lost flab and got seriously veined arms now. Seriously. I look like Jon Cena, from the elbows to my fingertips. I'm so totally ripped! Incidentally, John Cena has NOT been in my office at any time that I am aware of.

You know what else is cool about the service industry? All the drinking you do! It helps you forget about how much your job sucks and you just can't wait to quit if you could just finish your novel, or script, or animated tv pilot, or short story collection, or that sculpture, or song, or what the fuck you've convinced yourself will elevate you somewhere above despairing mediocrity.

You know the cool thing about the service industry? You really learn your city backward, forward, upside down, and slanting over. You get to know so many vibrant, cozy, shithole neighborhoods because you heard Johnny had an ounce pf the good shit and Johnny always has good shit, I wouldn't lie to you about weed, man, cuz that's not cool. You meet all sorts of cool bartenders at bars in other districts that might have an after-hours license, or might possibly be willing to let you stay after closing and drink with the staff because I think he used to work here, or maybe he used to fuck Jenny, or that one girl who quit before you started here. Then, after finding all these quaint, little, slices of urban purgatory, you will get to walk home from them cuz Becky got blitzed on Goldschlager and cough syrup, and you think she lost her keys, but even though it's been months since you've even downloaded any new porn since your internets got disconnected, you still aren't reaching into her pockets to find her keys. You don't know where she lives and she's got to be at work in two hours to open anyway, so fuck it, leave her here. Hell, most people don't get to wait outside a Starbucks for it to open! The Muffin Man is a hard motherfucker to catch in the clact, however.

So where was I? Oh yeah, Helob ate the last of the fourth generation of crickets and I don't think any more will be spawning so I should get some today or tomorrow. Except it is tomorrow, so do I mean Monday or Tuesday, or even Sunday? I was planning on getting some sleep today, and I was thinking that on Sunday but that was before midnight, so I guess I meant Wednesday. Or Monday.

I Lied Today

It was a pretty big lie. I lied because I needed to, things needed doing that wouldn't happen without the lie. So I lied, and did so without remorse or regret. I could have asked someone to lie for me, and she would have. But I didn't. I lied to her and thus she did not have to lie for me. I did this in part because it keeps the sin within, and partly because I'm a better liar than anyone I know. Why behave and act with total integrity, if not to use said integrity for personal gain when necessary? Did I just become Republican? Fuck, maybe I should move out of this city.

The Difference

Between gregarious and creepy is a frown.
Between caring and controlling is a smile.
Between nice and guillible is esteem.
Between funny and slick is a smirk.
Between lonely and happy is a walk home.

Having the shit kicked out of me three times this week, both conversationally and metaphorically, has been a bit rough. I don't know if I deserve it, but I like to think that I thrive in adversity. I might have tempted the gods a bit much, and now I've got enough adversity for a while. Last night, a fellow and I were lightning rods for manhate from a wide variety of women. I felt like I was the target of all the frustration generated by all the prior douchebags these women had dated in the past. It was a punishing barrage followed by a slow retreat. It has been said that armies always suffer greater losses in retreats, and I believe it. Ladies, if you don't like cobags, don't date them.

I've also upgraded from eight pound weights to twenty pound weights, so that may have something to do with my general feeling of soreness.

Brief Update on Tuesday's Post

DC is a surprisingly small city. Case in point: I ran into the woman from Saturday night and Tuesday's post while waiting for a pal outside a metro station. She recognized me, laughed, and walked on. I scowled at her.

Stripmall Ballads and The Duhks

I am on my way to tonight's banjo-filled show at Iota, near the Clarendon Metro. I hope to be able to post something worthwhile about the show tomorrow. The Stripmall Ballads have two new releases coming out in July both of which I am eagerly awaiting. I have less info on The Duhks, but heard their version of the Camptown Races song something like 4 years ago on NPR's Song of the Day, and it has played every now and then in my head since.

The Needs of Commitment

People are odd little creatures when you look at us. We insist on some sort of dualistic relationship when our closest living relations are polyamorous poo-flingers, hanging out in the jungles all day trying to get laid. Which sounds only slightly more civilized than any bar on ladies night.

Back to our own peculiarities, commitments and committed relationships are odd for primates and yet we still hold that these are the highest and most noble of all relationships with any being other than our Divine. This seems to work out pretty well for most Americans, regardless of the government's interference, and I have no objections to this system of relating. I do have a problem with those who abuse this system to the detriment of others, specifically my detriment.

If you're in a committed relationship, you had best make damn sure that you understand and respond to the needs of the other. You are also responsible for ensuring that your needs are properly communicated. Because I am sick and fucking tired of wasting my A game with women who aggressively flirt with me and grab my interest and then flounce off to their lump of shit on a sofa that they call honey.

Case in point: I am sitting at work, minding my book, when a cute blonde with twinkling eyes walks by and harasses the shit out of me for my choice of book. I'll paraphrase:

Her: Look, friends! This man is an asshole! (Waves at me) He is reading a book that offends me, thus he is an asshole much like the man I am with but without tonight!

Me: Who the fuck are you that disturbs my quiet reading of this amusing book?

Her: I am one who disturbs and demands you justify your actions!

Me: I see no material reason to justify anything, but you are attractive and I am just arrogant enough to condescend and say, your opinion of me is worthless.

Her: How dare you ignore my reprobation!?

Me: Quite easily, shall we discuss this at length at another time of our choosing? Give me your number and you might convince me of my error.

Her: (Stares at me in amazement, before smiling briefly) I sniff in disdain at you.

Then the manager seats them in my section. The witty banter continues, I was using Classic Gambit #3: Asshole Who Reveals. She smiles, and winks at me at the end of each brief session of repartee. This went quite well until she accidentally mentioned a "Jimmy." Being no fool, I recognize immediately the significance of "Jimmy" and cease the contest. As she leaves, I ask her to say hi to Jimmy for me. To which she gasps, gapes, and blushes.

Fuck you, Jimmy. You aren't giving her what she needs, so she ventures out and takes it from those innocents willing to speak with her. She is almost as bad as you because she stays with you without communicating her needs, or despite your obvious lack of regard for her. So fuck you, Jimmy, and the horse you rode in on. Fuck you, your parents for not teaching you, and fuck your grandparents for not slapping your parents when they saw what was happening.

One final note: if you're gonna give a fake name, don't hesitate and break eye contact while you think, and then slowly say, "Starla?" I can not respect bad liars.

Up

I finally saw Up yesterday. I went to a 3d showing. The 3d was fun without being oppressive. People may have already told you about it, but I thought I was ready for the opening montage. I wasn't. One of the reviewers on CHUD described the montage as the most brilliant 20 minutes of cinema so far this century, so my expectations were pretty skewed, but goddam if I wasn't crying at the end of it.

It's hard to review a movie from a studio like Pixar without thinking about it in the context of all their previous offerings. If Cars was the Star Trek 5, Ratatouillie the Search for Spock (or even The Voyage Home), and Toy Story 2 (or The Incredibles) the Undiscovered Country, then Up is the Wrath of Khan. I think it will hold out against the future offerings simply because it all fits together so well. Nothing felt forced, nor was too much said. None of the characters was without humanity, and all were empathetic in some way, even the villain. I recommend this movie to anyone.

Progress of Equality

Hopefully. DC appears to be about two months from recognizing same-sex marriage/gay marriage/civil unions/the same inalienable civil rights for all. This is pretty great. What isn't so great is the mobilization of church-based resources against this push for a semblance of equality. From what I understand, most of the resistance is again from the black community in DC, an irony lost on some less than others. I would link some articles and resources here, but alt-tabbing and hot linking doesn't really work so well on my phone. Maybe tomorrow.

DC may have a harder time actually permitting the rights to be exercised, however. Apparently, there is some sort of legal difference between recognizing marriages and permitting them. I guess these are all steps, but I still think that's a fine line of bullshit to spread. Here's to hoping that some conservative fucktard in Congress remembers that his constituents don't live in the District, his bigoted morals aren't welcome here, and keeps his hands off our home rule.

Here's a Question:

Is this fraking working or not, cuz I got some splainin' to do.

Allow Me to Tell You The Story...

of how awesome I am. Details to come.

People Really Eat Breakfast?

Normally, I'm the kind of slack-wit who barely makes it up in time for second breakfast, but today I was up before 10. AM. I KNOW. I decided that I would expand my horizons by having a hard-boiled egg. This is a decision I have never made before. "What do we think about having a hard-boiled egg, Genius Corpus?" "How, about let's have a slice of bread with barbecue sauce and watch Hard Boiled while pretending the bread is something healthy and delicious?" "Sounds like a plan!"

It may come as no surprise, but I have no idea how long it takes to hard boil an egg. I boiled two eggs for about 10 or so minutes and took one out. Realizing that cracking it open if it were unfinished would be sub-optimal, I shook the egg. Between the intense heat and the sudden pain in my fingers, I am not sure if the egg innards were solid or not. I am just leaving them in the boiling water until they decide to come out.

We're approaching 20 minutes in the boiling water, and the kitchen is getting pretty humid. I prodded the eggs with my scoop and the shells cracked like...eggshells? No, that's not right because I didn't prod them particularly hard. I am going to take this as a sign they are done and pull them out. I think I'll let them cool off before attempting to devour them, though. My fingers still hurt.

The real question plaguing some of your minds is not how long an egg takes to boil at various temperatures, but what the hell was I doing waking up at a nearly civilized hour? I'll happily tell you at length and tedium, or perhaps brevitiously and possibly wittiliously. I just made those up. I crashed at my brother's apartment last night. I am over here attempting to use the interweb to locate gainful employment of the salaried variety. Waiting tables at a beer bar is fun and all, living like a collegiate refugee, but the financials of this situation are not at all fun or even interesting. This is not why I woke up so early, however. I woke up at the ass crack of tomorrow because this apartment has lovely views and great honking windows from which to appreciate said views. And the sun crept its merry fucking way over the horizon and woke up some jackass who operates a pneumatic hammer and all of his jackass buddies and they had a happy-go-goddam-lucky time in the parking lot eight stories below the aforementioned windows.

Oh, and Brother of Mine and Your Sniper Loving Pal? Im in ur kitzen eetin ur foodz.

Federal Reserve Collective Tonight at Iota

Russian snipers aside, I will be sprinting from cover to cover tonight as I make my way to the First Mondays with the Federal Reserve at Iota Club and Cafe. The cover is only $5 and like air guitar competitions, everyone I have convinced to go to this show has raved about the amazing awesomeness seen and heard on the first Monday. You can buy me a drink or three.

You Know Who My Favorite WWII Sniper is?

I can't even name one, so there. If I had to name my favorite WWII Russian Naval Scout, he would be Vladimir Leonov. Dude was badass.

Absent-Minded Genius/History Lesson

Dearest audience,

You may notice that there is something...unusual about the following post. This is for a very good reason, which I will reveal in a moment.

First, I would like to tell you about Simo Hayha. For those of you who are familiar with WWII Finnish snipers, Simo Hayha is a household name. He is probably in my top ten WWII sniper faves, maybe even in the top 3.

Before entering combat, Häyhä was a farmer and a hunter. His farmhouse was reportedly full of trophies for marksmanship. It was during the Winter War (1939–1940), between Finland and the Soviet Union, that he began his duty as a sniper and fought the Red Army.

Häyhä was credited with 505 confirmed kills of Soviet soldiers, and 542 if including the unconfirmed deaths. The unofficial Finnish frontline figure from the battlefield of Kollaa places the number of Häyhä's sniper kills over 800! Häyhä was also credited with over two hundred kills with a Suomi KP/-31 submachine gun, thus bringing his credited kills to at least 705. All of Häyhä's kills were accomplished in less than 100 days.

One tactic used by Häyhä was to compact the snow in front of him so that the shot wouldn't disturb the snow, thus revealing his position. He also kept snow in his mouth so that when breathing he wouldn't reveal his position.

The Soviets tried several ploys to get rid of him, including counter snipers and artillery strikes. On March 6 1940, Häyhä was shot in the jaw during combat. The bullet tumbled upon impact and left his head. He was picked up by fellow soldiers who said "half his head was missing". He regained consciousness on March 13, the day peace was declared.

It took several years for Häyhä to recuperate from his wound. The exploding Soviet bullet had crushed his jaw and blown off his left cheek. Nonetheless, he made a full recovery and became a successful moose hunter and dog breeder after World War II.

When asked in 1998 how he had become such a good shot, he answered, "Practice." When asked if he regretted killing so many people, he has said "I did what I was told to as well as I could." Simo Häyhä spent his last years in a small village called Ruokolahti located in the south-east of Finland near the Russian border.

You may be wondering why you just read all of that. This is because Charles' blog has been hijacked by his brother Tim and his friend George. Always remember to log off Blogger on other people's computers.

Totally Tarantula Tuesday: Extra Special Biting the Hand That Feeds You Edition

Typing one handed is a lot tougher than all those people on message boards joke about it being. Especially when your roommate and one time confidante has assaulted you while you were watering the remaining cricket crop. Not cool. Seriously not cool.

In other news, my hand had almost healed from it's injurious wounding back in February. In somewhat related news, it still hurts. In less than truly related news but still sorta relationary, I will not be reviewing Bear Republic Racer 5 IPA any time soon. In less than related news, nor will any of the so-called contributors to Well-Rounded Nerds, despite their claims of near-constant Spotted Cow consumption. In totally unrelated and not at all interesting-ness, if you want something done, blog about it four months later.

How Can This Not Be Awesome?

How could anyone not be eagerly awaiting Mega-Shark vs Giant Octopus?

The IMDB page says "Up 11,403% in popularity this week." I laughed out loud.

It Happened Again

I had a great post idea last night while talking on the phone with my brother, and now I can't remember it. I think it was one of those observational humor/advice from an idiot ones that are pretty good/stupid. Let's all just assume it was hilarious and you all loved it and linked to me and sent me tons of fan mail.

Two Words on the Show Bearing My Name

SAVE CHUCK.

And now, some more words on the show:
I wish I had tv reception so that I could have watched season 2, but I don't have an antenna nor do I have the cash for a converter. Whatever, I still like the show.

Someone's in the Kitchen with the Genius

Here's what I made to eat a couple weeks ago and forgot to blog until now:
-4 slices of roast turkey (Oscar Meyer low fat style)
-Remains of a bag of peas and carrots
-five eggs
-can of tomatos with green chili and celery
-sharp cheddar cheese
-potatos from November
-various spices
Sautee turkey and peas and carrots in butter and whatever spices you want. Spice eggs how you want, whisk eggs. Once the turkey and peas are browned enough for you taste, toss in can of tomatos and etc. Let it simmer for a while, then toss in eggs and mix. Throw cubes of cheese on because you are out of bread and fuck it, you could use the fat for energy.

In another pan, stir fry cubed potatos with spices and butter. Then lower the heat and cover. Use as base for other pan's contents, and also because those fucking potatos have been in your fridge since Q4 2008. Maybe get rid of the ugly ones and the ones gone too soft even for your broke ass sensibilities? Maybe.

Toss the potatos on your plate and then pile on the other crap, realizing that the potatos and butter are the best part of your meal. Receive an understanding from the universe about peas, and the frying thereof. Gain sudden insight into why you've never heard of a recipe that calls for fried peas. That oatmeal and potato diet you've read about seems pretty damn good while you chomp away on your balogna pie.

Definitions

From Dictionary.com:
an⋅tique
   /ænˈtik/ [an-teek] adjective, noun, verb, -tiqued, -ti⋅quing.
–adjective
1. of or belonging to the past; not modern.
2. dating from a period long ago: antique furniture.
3. noting or pertaining to automobiles approximately 25 years old or more.
4. in the tradition, fashion, or style of an earlier period; old-fashioned; antiquated.
5. of or belonging to the ancient Greeks and Romans.
6. (of paper) neither calendered nor coated and having a rough surface.
7. ancient.

dai⋅ly
   /ˈdeɪli/ [dey-lee] adjective, noun, plural -lies, adverb
–adjective
1. of, done, occurring, or issued each day or each weekday: daily attendance; a daily newspaper.
2. computed or measured by the day: daily quota; a daily wage.
–noun
3. a newspaper appearing each day or each weekday.
4. dailies, Movies . a series of hastily printed shots from the previous day's shooting, selected by the director to be viewed for possible inclusion in the final version of the film; rushes.
5. British .
a. a nonresident servant who comes to work every day; a permanently employed servant who sleeps out.
b. a person employed to do cleaning or other household work by the day.
–adverb
6. every day; day by day: She phoned the hospital daily.

in⋅con⋅ceiv⋅a⋅ble
   /ˌɪnkənˈsivəbəl/ [in-kuhn-see-vuh-buhl]
–adjective
1. does not mean what you think it means.

Totally Tarantula Tuesday: Extra Special "I Think My Pet Thinks I'm Food" Edition

This morning, as I stumbled blearily past my roommate's terrarium and cricket death chamber, she/he/it/bird/spider licked her lips at me. I shit you not. I stopped and looked back at her, and he/she/it/bird/spider stopped moving for a brief moment and then continued running her pedipalps over her fangs. WHILE LOOKING RIGHT AT ME. I guess she/he/it/bird/spider hasn't learned yet to avoid biting the hand that feeds. I took another step toward the kitchen and the inevitable cup of coffee and Helob turned to the left to watch me while continuing to rub his/her/it/bird/spider's fangs. Disconcerting does not begin to describe the feelings engendered by my roommate's actions, especially considering how she/he/it/bird/spider is nearly blind.

Helob has been getting damn testy of late, refusing to get out of the way when I need to refill the water dish. He/she/it/bird/spider has reacted violently to my attempts to clean the terrarium of cricket corpses, striking out at the fork I use to scrap the dirt clean. I am a little worried that Helob might be meeting a rough crowd and experimenting with drugs and piercings. She/he/it/bird/spider has certainly attempted to pierce my water bottle and fork.

I should also mention the strange incident that happened last night. I heard a strange noise as I was falling asleep and thought that something had fallen over or perhaps a new roommate/tarantula food source was moving in. I turned on the lights and looked around for the source of the scuffling. I heard the strange scratching sound again, and it was definitely coming from the terrarium. I peered into Helob's dirty domain of cricket doom and saw her/him/it/bird/spider standing on the cricket's food dish. His/her/it/bird/spider's front pair of legs were on the ground and she/he/it/bird/spider was using his/her/it/bird/spider's pedipalps to lift the dish, which would then make the scratching-scuffling sound when the pedipalps lost their grip. Helob could only lift the dish about a centimeter before her/his/it/spider's weight caused Helob to drop the dish. I think the devious and deadly spider was trying to frighten the cricket that shelter underneath the food dish, but the meals of wheels weren't obliging him/her/it/bird/spider. Wanting some peace and quiet, and also to appease the great beast, I opened the terrarium and shooed the large-fanged and furry creature off the food dish. I carefully lifted the dish, not to avoid harming the crickets cowering underneath, but to avoid being attacked by a rabid tarantula. The crickets scattered for all corners of the terrarium, yet not a chirp was uttered. They had nowhere to run and no stage on which to sing and be free of the tyranny of venom enforced by Helob. I had a quiet night, but the next morning Helob's attitude toward me was decidedly un-passive and un-roommatey. Figures. I buy all the food and clean the place constantly and somehow, I'm the shithead.

Working Projects

I'm working on a number of writing projects, and I'm finding myself disappointed with my writing ability. Part of the disappointment comes from the repetition that I think I am injecting into the piece and part of it seems to be coming from the act of writing itself. Or maybe I just feel sort of empty afterward. I am not sure. It's certainly a new feeling.

I wrote something today, and I almost felt a bit of sympathy with George Lucas. As soon as I hit publish, I immediately had to revise some of it. And then some more. And then, the next thing I know my protagonists are annoying children and racists aliens. Maybe not quite that bad, but close. I've already got a few paragraphs I want to add to the thing, so I guess it's a good thing I haven't really told anyone about my other blog, er, um.

SHIT.

Where I Write These Days

Sitting on the rocks by the babbling sewage and road runoff rivulet behind my apartment. Canal Road and the Canal are below me and the sun is warm. The burble babble of the poisoned water drowns out most of the traffic noise, and the smell is tolerable most days. The sunlight glitters and gleams on the fouled falling water, uncaring of our damage or danger. That orb will bear silent witness far longer than our life, our love, and our crime.

Two Recent Pictures From Dulles

A friend of mine sent me two pictures of the great sea of humanity in which she swam at Dulles airport. The first one is rather poetic:

I like the expression on the child's face, utter despair. The resignation is writ large on the adults behind her, yet she is still so full of life, happiness, hope, and innocence and thus she alone can feel the crushing emptiness of this hideous ordeal.

The second picture is completely rage-worthy and sadly unpoetic:

That is indeed a Twilight: the movie tote bag in the hands of one clearly beyond the intended age-range. One could say at least she's reading, but to my ears that insults me and displays a startling lack of faith or hope in America. One could also say that there is no accounting for taste, but to my tongue that says this pathetic creature has no sense of taste left. One could say that she is a sad and lonely person whose life has been rendered empty and cold like the wind-swept barrens of Wyoming, and she reaches toward the story as a plant reaches toward the meager light of the winter sun. To my ears, this is rank and melodramatic hogwash. One might believe such things if only she didn't posses the tote. One might be willing to grant the largest benefit of the sum of all doubt, if not for that tote. I wonder if she has a lifetime subscription to the Harlequin Novel of the Week Club. And I don't mean that the club merely sends out one novel a week, I mean also that they write a novel a week. Find and Replace features heavily in this writing, as does the word turgid. Fye on thee, Satan.

New Netflix Arrivals

Man, I should really check out my Netflix queue. I returned three movies last week and received Insomnia, On The Waterfront, and A Streetcar Named Desire. The last three movies I have watched were: Serenity, Logan's Run, and The Living Daylights. Yes, the first Dalton Bond movie. There does seem to be a slight disconnect between my recent habits and my queue, but I can always blame that on my recent illness and cabin fever.

I am remembering now that I was on a bit of a Brando kick while last tinkering with my queue, and I might have several or several dozen more Marlon Brando movies to get through before I hit a rich vein of anime, or a big basaltic block of britcoms. I suspect that I will have to drill through a hardened layer of surf documentaries before hitting the Hitchcock Aquifer that is rumored to exist near a sediment of 70s softcore and science fiction.

Google's April Fools Joke Not as Funny as Nature's

Google has added a new feature to gmail. Hardy-har-har. On Sunday, nature left me a lovely flu that is currently the bane of my existence. I am not sure which of these pranks is funnier.

Well This Blows

There was a scheduled blogger outage this evening, so I decided to catch up with other blogs while I waited. I thought I had a decent post in mind and was worried that it would get eaten, as others have after scheduled outages. So I went cruising around and totally forgot my post. And now I've lost my writing impulse as well. Oh well, there's always tomorrow or later tonight, even if I can't post from home yet.

Totally Tarantula Tuesday: Terrifying Tuesday Edition!

Helob finally ate one of the little violinsts! I happened to glance over at him/her/it/bird/spider and she/he/it/bird/spider snatched up a cricket that wandered too close. Sweet success for me and sweet succulent secretions for him/her/it/bird/spider. Hopefully, fear will keep the rest of the string section in line.

Summer Expedition Plans?

My quartermaster just waltzed into my writing den and proposed a schedule that included planning sessions for a possible return to the land of buckthorn and honey weiss. I nearly cane-whipped Auswald for interrupting my thoughts. The sheer audacity of the man! I was betwixt a plot and a nap, nearly finished with a rough draft of my next novel, prior to the typing stage and he barges in all a-flutter over schedules and time tables! It's my expedition, is it not? It shall leave when I say and not a moment earlier nor later.

I should not be too hard on Auswald, his disturbance brought some fond memories to the forefront of my cognition and for that I shall have a sumptuous dinner made that he will serve me and enjoy most fragrant lovelies and an abundance of pungence. This meal will sate me and serve to enhance his savoring of whatever broth and noodles the cook prepares for the staff. I suppose I should have Auswald perform an inventory of the expedition's equipment and oil my armaments. I shall retire to my den and begun anew with my memoirs.

My Life is a Constant Veil of Tears, Post-Modern Tears

I've been reading through the archive of Pictures for Sad Children, catching up on comics I've missed or forgotten since disconnecting the internets from my apartment. This comic about bugs in the flour reminded me of an incident from two summers ago. I was over at my brother's watering our tomatoes while he was off on a vacation. I stuck around to watch some tv and eat some of his food. The only food he had was crackers and mustard, so I ate some crackers with mustard. I got thirsty after eating most of the crackers in one package and went to get some water. I came back to the couch to find little black bugs crawling all over the crackers. I had previously thought the little black dots were part of the cracker. I was wrong, and horribly so. I drank as much water as I could and hoped that the bugs weren't toxic. I shoved the crackers in the freezer to kill the bugs, and also in the hopes that maybe my brother would eat them and therefore get some measure of revenge upon him for leaving me bugged crackers. He had not intended to leave any food for me at all, so I guess the joke was on me.

I nearly barfed all over the Metro on the way home, but held it together. I guess I've matured, or maybe just gotten dumber.

On Africa trip, pope displays complete lack of regard for health issues

From Yahoo news:

YAOUNDE, Cameroon – Condoms are not the answer to Africa's fight against HIV, Pope Benedict XVI said Tuesday as he began a weeklong trip to the continent. He also said that pigs fly. It was the pope's first explicit statement on an issue that has divided even clergy working with AIDS patients.

The pope also said that he is a dumbass.

In similar news, the AIDS/HIV prevalence rate in the District of Columbia is estimated at 3%. An epidemic is quantified as a 1% infection/prevalence rate, according the to the Washington Post article I read yesterday. So it's a severe epidemic in the city. I somehow doubt that U.S. Representative who held up the D.C. budget a few years back over a program that would have promoted condom use is losing any sleep over this serious problem.

Totally Tarantula Tuesday: The Cricket Farmer's Spider

I spaketh and I delivereth...on my own fucking schedule, so go eat a cobag, or read on, if you like tales of large, hairy, arachnids and their complex relationships with their caregivers and life-essence providerers.

Some writers have written about the eternal nights and the depths of the human soul which they encounter while exploring said nights. I write not of such nights, nor am I lucky enough to experience such lovely, lonely nights on a regular basis. I write of nights filled with the sweet, dulcet tunes of creatures unfortunate enough to be birthed into a world of captivity and fear. they live their sad, short lives in constant dread of the moment of pain and poison which suddenly ends their miserable excuse for an existence. I write, of course, of the crickets that have hatched in my tarantula's terrarium.

These are the evolutionary equivalent of veteran soldiers. They are the spawn of crickets smart or lucky enough to have lied long enough to breed and lay eggs in the strata of my cohabitant's domain. I am amazed and bedazzled by the mere presence of unpaid-for crickets in my fanged roommate's portion of our small efficiency. She's quite and always pays the bills on time, so I count myself among the lucky few in the District. Back to the crickets.

I have counted more than seven of the little bastards in there with her. The first three that reached edible stage were eaten with a quickness, mostly likely due to the extended and involuntary, totally accidentally enforced, starvation of last Autumn. Also, they were the first to sing and chirp.

As one local stand up comedian remarked last summer at Live Humans, "it must suck to be a cricket violinist, because you know you'll never be as good as an Asian." All I can say is this, if I were an Asian violinist, I would hope, pray and practice so that I would not become prey. I have not heard much about Chinese tarantulas but I will admit to the great and species-wide fear we should all be fearing at the implication that there are arachnids preying on violinists of any region.

There are more circkets than I can count in Helob's terrarium than I can currently count due to my deificient lack of marking equipment and motivation. I think I counted somewhere between eleven and eighteen musicians of various tonnage. Currently, there are only one or two denizens capable of producing ear-splitting decibels and violations of my REM-pattern. I would blame my recent lack of worthy Celebrity Dream Cameo's but the one brilliant remaining dream of such quality is still in draft form among other languishing blog posts. I can not fairly blame the crickets for this because I am a huge slacker. I can blame them for thinking that my alarm is blaring at dawn, when it was clearly set for 11. I wish she would just harvest the life juice out of these six-legged bastards and be done with it.

Regarding the predator in discussion, she remains calm in the face of immanent financial ruin. She may have lost all her stock and options, but she's still got some living crickets and a slow metabolism. The second crop of crickets to reach singing age have recently begun inflicting their special brand of insomnilent torture upon me. I sincerely hope Helob either experiences a growth spurt and the incipient pangs, or gets bored with this version of Tchaikoveranskhovenonovachight's Third Symphony in A Major, Night Terrors alternate universe version. I would vastly prefer if she would just consume all the goddamn grass that grows and chirrips in her vastness.

I will state for the internetian record that there is very sparse irony at searching for the allowed variations of the word insomnia at 6:43 am on Sunday morning.

Who watched the Watchmen? I did.

I read the graphic novel in the fall for the first time and I thought it was pretty damn good. I liked the thoroughness of the novel, even if I didn't think all of the asides and endnotes, or frontnotes, were necessary to the plot. I enjoyed the heck out of it and figured that a significant portion would be cut to make the movie. I don't really have a problem with cutting things for movie adaptations, so long as the directers or producers don't cut characters or plot points that I think are essential. There is basically no way to make an adaptation without cuts, unless you're the BBC and are shooting for a four hour miniseries, so these should be expected. After reading the novel, I had a short think about the cuts I would make, were I making the movie, and I am surprised to say that I was almost right. However, I was not surprised nor was I disappointed by what was cut.

I heard some guy complaining about it as we all filed out, and he compared it to the Harry Potter movies in the list of shitty adaptations. This was a tremendous overreaction. The Potter movies have cut scenes and extended others in a display of poor judgment and changed crucial dialogue. This guy seemed to want a literal transfer of written word and panel to the screen, and I don't expect or want that. If I wanted to see a movie like that, I would just read the book again. The director has a creative vision, usually, and you are watching their team's interpretation of the book or graphic novel. If you accept that, you might find yourself enjoying Watchmen as well.

As a movie, it is extremely entertaining but surprisingly slow at times. The characters were excellent, especially Rohrschach, though Silk Spectre II was perhaps the least excellent. Rohrschach had to be brilliant or the entire movie would have fallen apart. I don't want to spoil anything else, except to say that I thought the changes were fine (unlike the end of The Two Towers) and the movie was great overall. This feels like a pretty limp review but I don't want to give away anything for those who haven't seen it (unlike teh l4m3 and his Battlestar Galactica spoilage). Worth the bullshit of the modern movie theater experience.

I should say that I found the sex scene to be a little ridiculous. The entire theater was laughing at it and that is kinda the point but it lasted long enough to be almost uncomfortable.

Watchmen

I'm going to see that in a few hours. Hopefully, it is at least mildly interesting. I heard that some reviewers claimed that it didn't have enough action, to which I can only respond with "duh."