By the way, if you're not watching Most Extreme Elimination Challenge on Spike TV, you are denying yourself more laughter than you can possibly imagine. I call Melissa up whenever it's on, and we watch it together. It's balls to the wall hysterical.
UPDATE: I spoke with Erik, over at Intellectual Poison today. His voice wasn't as deep as I imagined. And he talks really fast. And he put me in contact with, like, the god of Linux. Not Linus Torvalds, mind you, but a bigwig nonetheless. Thanks again, Erik.
But, it all begs the question: when are Layne and I going to go out for drinks? Huh? Huh?
The demented author of the Schizophrenic Screeds that have made this site such a hit has, according to reliable sources, thrown his hat into the ring and is running for one of three open Stewartville school board seats. That, in and of itself, is not unusual. He ran for school board way back when I was news editor for the town's paper. He lost, as Dick Cheney would say, big time. This time, however, there's a major difference.
He's running unopposed.
Think about that. Try wrapping your mind around it. Let it run between your fingers and marvel at its very nature.
A certifiably insane, incoherent, paranoid schizophrenic is running, unopposed, for a school board seat. That means there's a very good chance he'll win.
Now, I had to report on school board meetings with that crackpot simply sitting in the audience, and he would take up 15+ minutes each meeting crowing the same disturbing nonsense I post weekly here. I mean, here it's at least harmless and amusing, but in person he was just fucking creepy.
And now he's poised to win a legitimately elected position. He could effectively sit on a board that is tasked with overseeing the betterment of our youth. He could play a role in shaping and molding the minds of countless students. Please join me in a collective shudder at the very thought.
I am soooooo glad I'm not news editor for that paper any more. The stress of school board meetings alone would ensure my untimely demise.
Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard . Amanda Beard .
And, because I'm blogging at work, that means no hot links, so if you want to find out about the Cheddar X, I suggest you perform a Google search on it. Anyway. . .
1. This one's from Lileks: "Families of terrorists who blow up men, women and children, some of whom are Americans, no longer receive money from Saddam, because Saddam no longer rules Iraq. Is this a good thing, or a bad thing? Explain."
I read this Lileks Bleat yesterday, and I have to say it was one of his bestest screeds, although picking just one of his musings as his best is like trying to decide which M&M in a pack is the tastiest.
The obvious answer is, "It's a good thing." Duhhh. But, more than that, it's the main thing. People comment to me that, yes, it's good that Saddam is gone. . . BUT. . . we should have taken him out with UN support. fuck the UN! They've become so completely corrupt, the institution was swayed by French and German interests intent on preserving oil rights and BMW sales contracts to Ba'athists. People then counter that, if we were so intent on moral righteousness and liberating oppressed people, we should send more troops to beleagured nations like Liberia. I agree, but current troop strength dictates that to be difficult. I'd love to be able to dispose of every meglomaniacal dictatorship or mullahcracy, but we just don't have the military resources to do so. But, just because we can't liberate EVERYONE doesn't mean we can't liberate ANYONE.
*backing down, because I could go on forever on this and there are more questions to be answered*
2. You've got the Magic Button of Death. Every time you press the button the person you want to kill will die. One other random person will also die. Do you use the button? Who do you whack?
Ah, the eternal moral borometer question. Would I push the MBD to smite Osama bin Laden (even though smiting a corpse seems like overkill) if it meant an innocent person would also die? Yes I would, even if that random person turned out to be me. Bin Laden pushed his MBD and wiped out 3,000+. Saddam pushed his MBD and wiped out over 1 million. I wouldn't hesitate to push my own personal MBD to ensure either of those turdlets can never again threaten basic human existence.
And Carrot Top, too.
3. You've won a million dollars with the conditions that you can only use it to purchase things for yourself and anything you haven't spent in a month is forfeit. What do you buy?
A house. A BIG house. On a lake. A BIG lake. Then I buy savings bonds.
4. You've won a million free and clear. What do you do with it?
Pass. Too much like question #3.
5. What song or band do you listen to when you want to reminisce or visit a moment in your past? What's the moment?
Pretty much anything by Journey. Every time I hear a song by Journey, I think back to my way younger years in the old roller skating rink of my hometown, clutching the shag blue carpet on the walls, trying to stay upright. The old Asteroids video game that you sat down at. Ditto for Breakout. Ditto for Outlaw. All video game classics. I remember my first crush on a girl four years older than myself. A WOMAN! The roller rink burned down when it was still magical to me, but I can always listen to Journey, or REO Speedwagon, and remember it exactly as it was all those years ago.
6. Or, is there a song that defines a period in your life?
Okay, you're not allowed to laugh here, but I've always had a special place in my heart for 99 Red Balloons by Nena and Major Tom (Coming Home) by Peter Schilling. Whenever I hear those songs, I remember dawdling in my parents' old clawfoot bathtub, which seemed deeper than the ocean to me at the time. I loved that bathtub, especially with bubble bath. Not necessarily a period in my life so much as an item, but whatever.
7. Can you know what someone is like just based on how they look or act without meeting them?
Um, how, exactly, can you tell how someone looks or acts unless you actually meet them?
You know him. You love him. And, if you know what's good for you, you fear him. He's Stewartville's not-so-anonymous Miscellaneous advertiser. No, he's not sane, not by a long shot, but he's sure entertaining, in a head scratching sort of way. Sooooo. . .
MACHEYE. What can be said now, nothing. The black pearl of space, retardation, gangrene (Help Democratic Freedom).
Gary XXXXXXXX
555-XXXX
PS Coming off the sun it's called L7. What more can I say. Now you got nothing like I got nothing. L7.
Isn't there a rock group called L7? Those bastards, coming off the sun like that. Anyway, there you have it: your weekly dose of mental illness.
NOTE: He actually does give his name and number each week, apparently hoping for a call, but I can't, in all good conscience, print his full name and real number here (thus the Xs), because some of you, and you know who you are, would actually call the nutjob and make him even more paranoid. You sickos.
I've yelped about this before, and I'm sure countless other folks have to, but I must reiterate. Why, I ask you, WHY, when a population is confronted by something as powerful as a hurricane, they simply have to go to the beach to see for themselves?
Seriously, the top story on MSNBC.com this morning featured a picture of a woman in a rain slicker walking along the beach, buffeted by strong winds and blinding mist. And she wore a grimace that indicated she was not all that pleased to be there.
Well, what the fuck did she think was going to happen? It's a fucking HURRICANE, dipshit! You don't go for a stroll in a fucking HURRICANE. Why don't you just go and casually pluck daisies from a mine field, or maybe try retrieving a quarter from the lion's den of the local zoo.
It's not just limited to hurricanes. Here in Minnesota, we're treated to a spring and summer phenomenon known as tornado season. And, sure enough, if the weather starts to look like it could harbor a tornado, people start emerging from their homes to take a look-see. It's gotten to the point that the sirens warning of severe weather practically entice people outdoors rather than prompting them to seek shelter in their basements. Sure, everyone KNOWS that tornados can whip up winds that can send 2X4s through concrete slabs, but that doesn't stop them from wandering around with their eyes looking skyward. Yup, looks like a tornado, all right. Big one, too. Sure wish I were indoors.
Crap on a cracker.
I'm not saying I'm immune from the disease, either. I've done my share of stupid pre-storm wandering. But, when the sky turns a paricularly menacing shade of gray, I head for the bunker. I mean, sure, it would be cool to actually see a tornado forming, but is it worth the potential cost? Hell no.
In my opinion, however, hurricane wanderers are 8,000 percent bigger idiots than tornado wanderers. I mean, at least with tornados, you're never really sure if one is going to coalesce, and even if one does appear, it could be small.
Hurricanes, on the other hand, are practically a sure thing. You know, usually days in advance, that the fucking thing is coming. Hell, you become so familiar with the hurricane, you even get on a first name basis with it. This time, it's Isabelle. Such a nice sounding name. Isabelle. Sounds like a character from "Gone With The Wind," and how fucking appropriate is that?
You don't get that cozy and familiar with a tornado. Tornados don't get names, although it could be argued that every tornado automatically gets the honorary title of "Oh, SHIT!" or "FUUUUUUCCCCKK!"
The point is, hurricanes give a lot of fair warning, particularly with today's satellite technology. So, why, when confronted with satellite images that show a galaxy swirl of a storm that blankets a goodly portion of the planet, would a person decide that it's a good day for a beach stroll? I just don't understand.
But, it's the newscasters that always floor me. I swear, they compete to see who can put themselves in a more precarius hurricane position. You'll see one standing on the beach, screaming to be heard above the gale behind them, and then you'll switch channels to see a newscaster standing on a pier, practically lashed to the rickety wood structure roiling amid the wind, and then you'll switch channels yet again and see a newscaster trying to surf, with chunks of raw meat tied to their leg to entice sharks.
That's the nice distinction between print and broadcast journalism. In print journalism, your success is often based on skill (except for the Jayson Blairs of the world). In broadcast journalism, success is usually based on appearance and stupid human tricks.
So, to wrap up, let me just say: stay the fuck indoors, people. There's a hurricane coming, for crying out loud.
Heinz Ketchup has just gone too far. Far too far. Really, what genius at Heinz thought it would be a good idea to make the plastic restaurant bottles red?
Sure, they make it look as if they're full to the tip, but they're not. Sometimes, there's not so much as a squirt left at the bottom, and yet there the bottle stands looking perfectly full.
Now the waitresses can just glide by and assume everything is fine, when in reality there's so little ketchup at my table, my fries can only be afforded a light blush application of ketchup.
Bring back the clear bottles, Heinz! Stop trying to hide the nation's ketchup shortage behind a cloak of red plastic. Ketchup bottles should only be completely red if they're completely full, so waitresses know when they need to be refilled and households know when they have to prop the bottles upside down to get at the last blorp in the bottle.
Vote NO to red ketchup bottles in '04. Do your duty as an American citizen.
UPDATE: Upon reflection, I guess it's not all bad. As Dave Barry would note, "Red Ketchup Bottles" would be a great name for a rock band.
I can't take it any more. I just can't take it! I tried to keep an open mind about having an officemate again. I honestly wanted to believe she would be as fun as her predecessor, Jen. Alas, it was not to be.
It's not her personality, mind you. Well, it is, a little. She has a tendency to suddenly start chatting about stupid things. Which is fine. It breaks up the monotony. But, her timing is all wrong. She starts blabbing at the exact moment I'm at my busiest, or worse, on the phone.
But, it's the nose blowing that's sending me over the edge.
She suffers from allergies, which isn't her fault I guess, but still. I mean, this girl, I think, actually enjoys her allergies. I think she believes that her allergies somehow make her special. She takes pride in her nose blowing.
You have not heard a nose being blown until you have heard this woman blow her nose. She really gets into it. It's her own personal nose blowing religion. I would be fine with it if it was one of those wet, sloppy sounding nose blowings that bespeak of a truly suffering soul.
But, no, her nasal discharges, which occur with a regularity that could make atomic clocks obsolete, are high-pitched, dry, ear-shattering trumpets that could no doubt set every elephant on the serengeti into rapturous sexual frenzies.
They come in threes, these nasty nose chimes. I'll be sitting here, vigorously tapping out a technical article, when suddenly the air is pierced by the first of her nasal ejaculations. It's disconcerting, to be sure, but it's even more disconcerting to know that two more are sure to follow. Sure enough, in quick succession, two more nose eruptions echo through our office chamber.
Even my managing editor, who happened to be in the office once when my officemate issued forth one of her trademark nasal triumvirates, had to admit that her nose blowing was unusually loud, with a "unique" sound. My managing editor then went back to the blissful silence of her her own office domain, leaving me to the ear splitting explosions of Jumbo.
And now, NOW, she's added a cough. Starting late last week, she started this strange, hollow cough. Like her nose blowing, her coughing has its own unique sound. Unlike her nose blowing, however, her coughing has no set time-frame. She'll just start this staccato hacking that almost always takes me by surprise and causes me to mash my keyboard.
I tell you, I really don't know how much longer I can take this. It's like trying to work in a nursing home, except there's only one patient, and that patient wants the whole world to know they're coughing and blowing their nose.
The best part? We found out today that, come June, our magazine staff will be moved to a cubicle farm. How will her nose blowing and coughing go over in the compromised privacy of Cubicleland?
Expect a lot of IBM resignations next summer. That's all I'm saying.
My long drought of computer game purchases came to an end Saturday with the ceremonial walk-through of Best Buy. I went in the store with no particular purchase aspirations, and I came out with a new digital camera battery and the first person shooter "Chaser."
The battery worked fine. The game, not so much. Here I have a system that is so advanced, I don't even use one third of its capabilities, and yet it couldn't run a game with such meager system requirements as an 800 Mhz. Hell, mine is a 2.3 GHz. It should eat that game alive. It did not.
Off to the Web I went, downloading every patch I could possibly click on, and still the game would not work. So, I was left with the distasteful alternative of calling tech support. The techie I spoke with asked me about my computer, and after I explained to him the details of my system, he said, "Man, that sounds like a sweet system. I wish I had that." Although I was pleased that he was envious, his envy did not make the game run correctly.
He told me to go and download the latest version of DirectX, which seemed odd, because the latest version of DirectX was supposed to be included with the game, but whatever. Then he told me to see if my nVidia video card had any updated drivers available. I was incredulous, but I did as I was instructed.
Reboot the system.
Game works. Woo hoo!
I'm not sure what to think about Chaser. It relies way too much on trying to tell a story, with digital animation that has all the angular choppiness I've grown to be so unimpressed with. Granted, it's far better than the days of Virtua Fighter, a game where all the characters looked like they were wearing cardboard for clothes and their hair consisted of road construction cones.
Chaser is the next generation of digital animation, and I'll admit it's fascinating to witness the evolution. Still, they haven't had a lot of success capturing facial emotion. My character is getting shot at and he shows all the emotion of someone watching their vehicle going through a car wash. Ho hum. Still, I have to hand it to the folks who produced Chaser: they were all about the details, including arm hair and a stripper dance sequence that had me pondering masturbation. The stripper, mind you, not the arm hair.
As first person shooters go, Chaser is okay. You pretty much just shoot at everyone because, strangely enough, everyone is shooting at you. It reminds me of the days of Unreal Tournament, a game that I spent way, way, wayyyyyyyy too much time playing. However, Chaser is far more plot driven, and the weapons are a lot more difficult to aim. The AI enemies are maddeningly accurate, even from long distances, but you can lure them in pretty easily and shoot them at your leisure. Oh, and there's a lot of blood. A. Lot. Of. Blood.
That was one of my gripes about Medal of Honor, which is one of the best first person shooters ever created. As great as it was, there was nary a drop of blood to be seen. You could empty an entire clip into a nazi, and there would be no blood to be seen. It's not that I'm a blood-thirsty fiend laughing maniacally as the digital life oozes from my target or anything. I'm just a sucker for realism. Medal of Honor was dripping realism, but there was no dripping blood. Give me some blood, that's all I'm saying.
Chaser delivers blood, in a pooling and splattering fashion. That's nice. It's good to see game designers taking pride in their work. Still, Chaser keeps trying to impress me with long-winded story lines. I mean, I get it, people are trying to shoot me. Have at thee!
A plus point for Chaser is the futuristic space component. One thing that I LOVED about Unreal Tournament was the space station maps where you could look out the window at earth or Mars spinning below. Chaser does the same thing. The opening mission, you're on a space station high above earth, and you can just marvel at the world drifting below. For some reason, I think that's just so cool.
So, would I recommend Chaser? I'm not sure. I haven't played the multiplayer version yet, but I imagine it's going to be pretty neat. The single player version, like I said, is preoccupied with the story line and drawn out cut scenes that take just shy of forever. But, lots of weapons, lots of blood, and lots of action.
I give it 7 bullets out of a possible 10.
Okay, I'm not sure why, exactly, Blogger keeps changing its posting design, but it totally screwed with my Internet Explorer at work. I mean, it looked all confusing, and I couldn't do any posting from work or anything. It was heartbreaking. Truly heartbreaking.
Then I realized I could try using Netscape Navigator. A funny thing about IBM. The company is no fan of Microsoft. It openly embraces Linux and thumbs its nose at Gates and Co. at every opportunity. But, it begrudgingly acknowledges that most people only know Windows, so they have to install it on all the PCs. Still, they get a sucker punch in on Microsoft by installing Netscape on all the PCs. Of course, most users instinctively still use IE, but Netscape is always there if needed. And, damn it, I needed it.
Voila! I'm blogging at work. It's not perfect, mind you. I have to hard-code in the bold and italics and, as for hot links: fah-get about it. But, i'm able to brain dump, and that's the important thing.
Boring weekend. I was supposed to go to the cities to see Melissa and we were going to take in the Renaissance Festival Saturday. Alas, Friday morning I get a call from the girlfriend. And she's crying. Not good. Apparently, her dad experienced problems following tonsil surgery of all things. His body reacted unfavorably to the anesthetic and his intestines unexpectedly shut down. Not that the intestines ever EXPECTEDLY shut down, but you get the idea. He bloated up like a dead horse and was in horrific pain. Imagine the worst case of gas ever, multiplied by 500. Well, things looked grim, and in the heat of a gas attack of magnificent proportions, he told Melissa that she had to contact his lawyer so he could change his will.
Melissa, understandably, expected the worst, and the tears did flow mightily. So, she came back down to Rochester to see her dad, and that's how we spent our weekend: sleeping and laying around all day, and then visiting the hospital. Not me, of course. I only tagged along for one hospital visit. I hate hospitals. They give me the willies. All those sick people laying in beds or shuffling around with tubes snaking out from under their gowns as they push an antenna of liquid-filled bags in front of them. *shudder*
I always feel guilty for being so healthy, as if I should at least fake a limp or run a tube from my nose just so I fit in a little better. It wouldn't do me any good. The patients would still recognize me as a smoking hot specimen of male hunkiness and I would feel their scorn even more.
Sunday, with her dad in far better condition, Mel drove back to the cities to work at Restoration Hardware. She had to work at 8 a.m., which meant the alarm clock was set for 6 a.m. An alarm clock should not spring to life at such an hour on a weekend. It should simply not be allowed. It went off and I immediately started getting ready for work. I had just squeezed a snail of toothpaste on my brush when I realized, "Hey, wait just a damned minute here. It's SUNDAY." Back I went into the bedroom to roust Mel. I went back to dreamland and didn't wake up until 1 p.m.
Sunday afternoon, a friend of mine came up to Rochester from my hometown of Harmony. He needed to get away from Harmony for awhile because his life just sucks hard-boiled eggs right now. For some reason, his wife has taken it upon herself to personally boink every male in Harmony and, being that she's probably the most exciting thing to hit Harmony since James Lileks visited the sleepy little hamlet in the early 90s, most of the males oblige.
I don't understand it. I CAN'T understand it. She had a devoted husband, a beautiful three-year-old daughter, a newly-remodeled home, and a future as happy as anything Harmony can provide. Yet she opted for cheap sex with cheap men, including a 40+ year-old with a Harley. What's the matter with people? It's enough to make me want to stay single for eternity. Maybe even longer.
Anyway, on a happier and totally unrelated note, Melissa bought me a little water-proof writing tablet and a pen with an impossibly bright light on the tip so I can write down thoughts that may snake their way into my gray matter as I slumber. Granted, the few other times I've tried to capture my nocturnal musings, the scribbled nonsense makes the literature of 50,000 monkies seem coherent by comparison. Still, I got a real kick out of the idea that popped into my head last night. Apparently, I was having a morbid bit of dreaming, owing primarily to the whole thing with Mel's dad. At some point, I woke up and wrote:
Cool funeral home name: The Good Mourning Funeral Home.
Damn I'm funny when I'm half asleep. Bring on the valium.
