because I've been listening to SQUEEZE tonight, for old times' sake. Ah, well. At least I'm not Andrew Sullivan gushing over the latest Pet Shop Boys.
I've been ruminating on Acidman's retrenchment tonight, and will share my unsolicited thoughts:
Number one, like Jay Solo, I think A-man is full of a little bit of shit. He'll be back. He thrives on us, and we on him. See, I like the A-Hole. He sticks a metaphorical rusty fork in our collective eye, and I think we can all use more of that. He is an acquired taste, for sure, but if you don't like him why the fuck do you go to his site? Any way, my point is this: Acidman is wrong.
It ain't about the blogrolls, or the solicitation of
sex hits. It's about the Comments. I'm tired of them. They despoil one's environment. They allow total strangers to beat off on your work product. Faulkner would have never finished Absalom, Absalom! if he was getting neck-fucked at chapter three by the Upper Mississippi Friends of Cripples and Orphans over his gratuitous use of the name Charles Etienne de Saint Velery Bon.
My point? I do have one. I don't think any of us can produce worthwhile writing if we are slaves to the Comment environment. One finds oneself doing the "right" thing to get the self-congratulatory comment. The fucking ego stroke. And bad comments are an ego stroke as well. My idea? Put the e-mail link up for hate mail (the only correspondence that matters) and drop the Comment shit altogether. Am I asking you folks not to comment anymore? I guess so. Let me get my hate mail e-mail link up first, though.
Da Goddess could find all those Clacker sites and I couldn't? I think I have an inferior Google engine. It's because I'm a white guy, isn't it?
is going underground. He's fed up with the hit whore scene, I think. I can respect that. When I get juked in my own comments because I didn't put somebody in the right stratum of my blogroll I smell the middle school girl's bathroom as well. Who needs that fucking shit?
veloci69: anyboddyout there?
whackboy: im still here..
lizzie4u: i'm here velociboy
veloci69: im 24 an buff: u?
lizzie4u: 18. i swear.
Veloci69: can we get together liz?
Veloci69: yur place?
lizzie4u: nah ma rents are fighting
Veloci69: my place is no goood. mybrutherrs' here
lizzie4u: how about the mall?
without a hit. New world record. And yet, I feel liberated.
Sorry it's late, but Li'l Kim means something entirely different in these parts, and that should be respected.
Let us begin with Newton's Swinging Balls. That would be Newton's Third Law of Motion: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Your Dad had the swinging balls on his desk, I know. So did my Dad. 2 balls made 2 balls swing, stagger the balls and they reciprocated, yada yada yada. It all led to
Brethren, there is no Google for these abominations. I've looked. They were acrylic balls about 16 inches apart, tethered by a string emboweled in their heart, with a washer in the middle. The object was to click and clack these things up and down till they shattered and blinded you. I truly wish I could find a picture. If you know them, cool. If you don't, get looking. Shocking toys.
I segue to Little Lotta. Tell me. What child walked into a convenience store in the '60's and said "Mama! I want the Little Lotta comic!? I really truly relate to that fat Crisco-hoovering, large-ass panty-showing, incredibly-out-of-condition blathering fucktard?" Why not Wendy, The Good Little Witch?
I'm just asking. Although in Arkansas I believe I could legally have more fun with Lotta than I could with Wendy. I think there are laws on the books against protoplasmic sex, but 13 year old obesibeasts are fair game. But I digress...
Next! Richie Rich.
No link for him. Fuck that little rich boy. Who would buy that comic, I ask? Where were the marketing geniuses there? I wanted to cane him like a Singapore spitter. Fuck Richie Rich.
Remember the first time you saw a switchblade? Cool grits. My sister brought my Dad one back from Mexico in '67. I was mesmerized. Of course, I'd also just seen Alan Arkin in Wait Until Dark, and I wanted a Geraldine that slid in and out on the push of a button. I'm still looking.
Okay. I had some issues with hot water bottles and chicken pox I wanted to explore, but screw it. I'm toast. Nite.
while I work through some Nostalgia™ issues:
1. What do you most want to be remembered for?
Achieving peace in the Mideast. Of course, that effete World Court in The Hague will probably call it something pedestrian, like Whacking the Necrotic Egyptian Screwhead Arafat. Hell, I'll even take that.
2. What quotation best fits your outlook on life?
"It's a fucking snakepit out there, boy" (courtesy: my old man).
3. What single achievement are you most proud of in the last year?
Achieving denouement every time I deployed the Thrill Hammer (Although there were a few touch and go moments).
4. What about the past ten years?
Skeeter, my ten year old red-headed genius. No doubt. She will be everything I bragged about being.
5. If you were asked to give a child a single piece of advice to guide them through life, what would you say?
Marrying an Arab is a singularly fucked up idea. Please consider the homeless person on that bench instead.
are on the way, but The Bride™ desires company and insightful conversation poolside, and as the Least Objectionable Alternative I must oblige. She is assisting with tonight's Nostalgia, however, so maybe we'll see what makes little girls tick.
and I feel better now. Got a little worked up over the last post. Which brings me to this great site. How in the world did I ever miss this Wonderful Southern Belle and Fellow Cracker? I was obviously too busy googling for vintage bullet bras so I can produce a Friday Nostalgia Kate will be proud of.
A great site, seriously. I'd post my kids' pictures too, but for that previous post.
I've read numerous accounts of the mayhem caused by the inclusion of a real phone number instead of a 555 number in the Jim Carrey movie Bruce Almighty.
A simple question: what kind of stranger-stalking, pentagram-engraving, hoarse-breathing, pet-strangulating, telephone line-severing, crepe-soled shoe-wearing, body hair-shaving, computer-hacking, pantie-fondling, refuse-sniffing, mail-steaming freak writes that number down and calls it!?!?!
I have a few ideas. I'm just waiting to see what the reward is.
Acidman front. My Spidey powers tell me he's up to something. Beware.
Some people have the ability to crank out serious work on an ongoing and consistent basis. I know I don't. My shit is all over the world right now. Fortunately, I bought the Kenmore Classic dryer, guaranteed to eat socks, so I have a lot of singletons to put my shit in, should I ever catch it.
from college is over at The Smoking Gun. If I'm lame he's Heather Mills. I was writing shit like this to my girlfirend in 8th grade, only I wasn't repeating myself in all the poems. My fave line:
Her flesh craddling against mine
For those who didn't know, Combustible Boy is on the Sound and Fury link to the left, along with Max, Eric, and Lan3. I think Tom Servo must be over at Crooow Blog. Always worth a look.
My recent posts have seemed, well, pussified. I've been trying to figure it out, and I think it's the style on the new site. The old site was a fucking mess; the style, fonts, and writing looked like the communal chalkboard in a special needs classroom. I should've called it the Short Bus Blog. It even had the puke green background (and I was getting queasy with that in the end).
Nope. The problem is too much gravitas here. I need to pop this puppy's cherry. So I'm going to go find a pic to put up that gives it that homey feel. Like gallstone surgery. I saw that on TLC's The Operation once. They had this fat woman's stomach and gall bladder open, and were pulling out what looked like slimy sapphron Kix out of her belly. Jumping Jesus, that was foul! I paid Cablevision an extra five bucks next month as a bonus. I love America.
I might just change the blogroll strati to Combustible Boy and everybody else.
a story close to my heart from News Of The Weird:
Plymouth (England) University, with a small Arts Council grant, did not test whether an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters could produce the works of Shakespeare, but did test what six Sulawesi crested macaque monkeys would do on a computer over a four-week period at Paignton Zoo in Devon. The Guardian newspaper reported in May that the monkeys produced about five pages of text between them, mostly consisting of the letter S. Said Professor Geoff Cox, they actually spent a lot of the time sitting on the keyboard. [The Guardian, 5-9-03]
screed is no mea culpa. As you will recall, she edited out some of a Bush speech to make it look like he had declared Al Qaeda finished a few days before the Saudi bombing. Bush had actually said the Al Qaeda that were captured or killed were "not a problem any more".
The feces hit the fan over that, and in the new environment at the scandal-plagued New York Times even a MoDo isn't immune from discipline. After firing Jayson Blair for his gross misdeeds, Howell Raines suspended Rick Bragg for far more circumspect violations. One white guy won't completely atone for having to do in Blair, however. A smackdown on his resident shanty Irish bitch might be in the offing, so Dowd scrambled.
Her latest column contained the entire Bush quote in the context of a different story, very nonchalantly, as if nothing had happened. Bullshit. She should pay the price for what was in essence a bald-faced lie. I'm not going to flog the quotes. Read Zev Chafets over at the NY Daily News for a good take.
is back in Nepal for festivities marking the 50th anniversary of his climb, and he's none too impressed with the state of the climbing community:
Hillary was critical of Everest's current mountaineers Wednesday, complaining about legions of climbers partying at base camp before scrambling up the world's tallest mountain on fixed ropes and ladders.
There were about 1,000 people at base camp with "a booze place for drinks and all the other comforts," Hillary said at a news conference.
"Just sitting around in a big base camp, knocking back cans of beer, I don't particularly regard as mountaineering," he said.
at the beginning, I say. What to do with the old Site Meter stats?
Can 'em. Sometimes you get a new bike but you don't want to roll back the miles you've racked up on that old computer you're attaching. Sometimes your computer craps out and you don't want to start from ground zero with a new computer on a bike you've worked like a slave child all summer. Can 'em. New beginnings. Never trade on the past. Which reminds me: I need to go pick out a trophy wife tomorrow.
I may give up the blasphemy, misanthropy, and misogyny and dedicate myself to my true love:
deconstructing old issues of Foreign Affairs magazine from the forties and fifties. I've been working on my response to Kennan's Containment article for about 12 years now. Maybe not, though. When you're on a good thump with 65 hits a day you don't want to alienate your loyalists.
so please don't take offense. I'm just trying to establish my cycling theme. And it is dynamic (or as the cretins I work with say, a "living document"). Things will change from time to time.
For the foreseeable future, however, Venomous Kate has the yellow jersey, holding the overall lead in true Tour de France manner. Her assistance in helping me get the new site up was invaluable, especially since she was in the middle of spring cleaning, a head cold, a serious time zone differential, and my holiday spree drinking. If you want the yellow you'll have to be mighty, indeed. Hint: my daughter turns 16 this year, and is infatuated with convertible BMW's.
The breakaways are the hot young blogs I happen to like. I may have missed one or two, but don't worry. Once these folks are established big dogs they'll be relegated to the peloton with the likes of Instantman and Vodkaman.
Acidman is a natural for King of the Mountains, because he was extremely helpful to me when I was a pup aborning in this game, because he was just in the mountains getting in touch with his inner Ned Beatty, and, most of all, because the winner of the mountain stages wears a white jersey with huge red polka dots. That seems fitting, somehow.
In case you missed it, Victor Davis Hanson had a typically brilliant commentary on NRO Friday. A sample:
The general causes of these Middle Eastern pathologies have been well diagnosed since September 11, ad nauseam. The Arab world has no real consensual governments; statism and tribalism hamper market economics and ensure stagnation. Sexual apartheid, Islamic fundamentalism, the absence of an independent judiciary, and a censored press all do their part to ensure endemic poverty, rampant corruption, and rising resentment among an exploding population. Siesta for millions is a time not for napping between office hours, but for weaving conspiracies over backgammon.You know what to do. Read the whole thing.
to the new site. I'll be fiddling with the template and style over the next few days, obviously. I appreciate your former patience with Blogger as well. Now let's have some fun.
I'm watching The Deer Hunter for the second time today. That means I'm a person with too much time on their hands. Or one who's enjoying their first day off without multiple obligations in a month. The hard part? Wading through the interminable one hour wedding scene (although it does have George Dzundza in it. I'd forgotten that). I like to cut to the chase, however. The Russian Roulette. Mao! Mao!
here ended a standoff about 1:00 this morning with a guy holding his 4 year old son hostage inside his house. After they went inside they found 5 bodies in "various stages of decomposition". No word all day on who they are.
Update: Here's a site with a little more info. Looks like it's going to be the long-suffering wife and some of her family members.