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Because it's fun to play a character who's playing a character in a fantastical world of magic. I've got an advanced copy of the game and already have a level 9 Creepy Introvert! His Power Sulking skill is unstoppable.

This is long overdue.

«A Middletown woman is arrested, after chasing children, urinating on a porch, and blocking traffic... all while wearing a cow suit.»

It would be so easy to judge this woman's behavior, but I ask you, is there a person among us who has not wanted to do exactly the same thing?

No?

Oh, then I suppose it's just her and me then.

Fine.

Losers.

Even though I suspect this is a jab at those who despise the GWB years, I still enjoy the top-level irony of presidency-as-natural-disaster.

Also, it's always good to note that the word "disaster" comes from the latin for "bad stars".

«The root of the word disaster comes from astrology: this implies that when the stars are in a bad position a bad event will happen.»

--Wikipedia

This dude reminds me of Gnat Torkington. And it's not just because he talks funny.

Musicians are endless sources of comedy.

This clip is messed up.

If Charles Bukowski wrote Peanuts, it would look a lot like this.

Just an update for those keeping track: my girlfriend Sally is washing the hand soap in the bathroom.

No word yet on what sort of soap soap she's using to get the soap clean.

Will post an update when I learn what she uses to clean the soap that cleans the soap she's cleaning now.

E_RECURSION_TOO_DEEP

In what is sure to become a fan-favorite blog game on taskboy, let me introduce: Collectible, Racist or Both. It's the game where I post some bit of obscure art and you comment on whether what's presented is collectible, racist or both. Ready? Let's start!

The Black Americana selection of kitchen oddities for the modern home offered by Texas Belles is, in the only word that comes to mind, stunning. I have seen such knick-knacks before as a child while being dragged around to various antique stores by my mother in the Northeast. However, I'm gobsmacked to learn that such effigies of racist folklore are apparently still being produced.

It does occur to me that there is a weird way in which one could view this collection that's not wholly offensive. I have read several Viking romances and in them, real nationalities are often portrayed as non-human. The Lapps are usually some hairy dwarfs and the Permians are all witches and wizards, it seems. I wouldn't feel too bad about having a grotesque Lapplander dwarf statue on my lawn because the image is so ridiculous that it cannot be taken to refer to real human beings. In a similar way, the very outlandishness of the Black Americana stuff can only be taken to refer to antebellum mythology rather than current racial attitudes.

However, this admittedly fine distinction might not be entirely clear to the casually viewer of such trinkets and so I eschew them.

What do you think? (The correct answer will appear soon!)

(Originally found through Substitute's blog)

UPDATE: The answer to this question is (highlight to read):

The AFTH movie is nearly out. This is not a joke.

UPDATE: It's out now!

Great scene, great acting.

«Folks, you can't run a reputation-based system in a mosh pit at a Debbie Gibson concert.»

--Sean Burke on wikipedia's "nobility" clause

You are Spider-Man

Spider-Man 90% Superman 70% Batman 65% Iron Man 60% Green Lantern 55% Robin 53% Catwoman 45% Supergirl 43% Wonder Woman 33% Hulk 30% The Flash 20%

You are intelligent, witty, a bit geeky and have great power and responsibility.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Quiz

Spiderman is my favorite Marvel superhero, so I'm pleased as punch that a stupid Internet personality quiz confirms my fondest desire. It must be Christmas!

Unreleased Aqua Teen Hunger Force.

Watch.

Now and forever.

Do I really need to comment on this? Yes, yes I do.

Rhythmless white guys rapping is a joke so old, I remember when it was new.

Mulletboy is sad.

Noted sci-fi author Robert Heinlein once posited that humor in based in pain. Over the years, I've come to agree with him.

It's not that the kid in the video above is any dorkier than anyone else I know. He's not. I laugh because I have been that hysterical about things that turned out to be OK if I had just let the experience happen and not tried to fight it.

If that video isn't enough for you, how about other child abuse?

I know, I know. You're all going to kick yourselves to learn that you missed this year's Municipal Truck Faire in Burlington, MA this year. It happened last Sunday. It took place in downtown Burlington. There were lots of kids climbing into dump trucks, fire trucks, front-loaders, ambulances and whatnot.

In other news, there is a downtown Burlington. Also, truck faires happen in Blue States.

Stay tuned to this channel for more Tales to Astound!

For the love of Job, people! The Onion is not to be used as a source of product ideas. This just in from NW Florida Daily News:

«But computers are now invading the bathroom. For several years, manufacturers have been quietly pushing toilets and toilet seats costing $1,000 or more that use small, built-in computers and remote controls to add new features that warm, wash and dry you. As bathrooms become more upscale and luxurious, a digital toilet fits right in.»

Ladies and gentleman, we have an e-toilet now.

Compare with this vintage The Onion article from the height of the DotCom era:

«"Of course, rudimentary pee-commerce has been around almost as long as the Internet itself," Scoscia said, "but our new e-toilet will bring the Internet into the next millennium with real-time point, click and shit capability." Scoscia noted that "Number 2.0," as Silicon Valley insiders have dubbed it, will be cross-platform compatible and fully 2K Flushes compliant. In addition, he said, it will feature significantly wider, more comfortable bandwidth to accommodate even the most massive user download. »

Attention American innovators: before moving ahead with your product plans, take a moment to remove your head from your buttocks to make sure your idea isn't, well, asisine. And the same goes for politicians.

Thank you.

As I write this, I'm drinking a beer. Not just an ordinary beer, I've got a Blue Moon wit beer. 10 minutes ago, I was asleep in my girlfriend's bed, dreaming without care. Then, at 2 minutes past 5PM, Sally awoke me. She was obviously agitated.

"Joe! Wake up! There's a chicken in the front yard!"

It took me a moment to evaluate that chilling statment, but I composed myself well enough to investigate with Sally. We hurried downstairs to meet our destiny.

Sally lives in North Cambridge, an area not reknown for its chicken population. Still, one bad apple was all that it would take to plummet the real estate prices. A few other neighbors had been roused into action by the rogue rooster. Together, the five of us, armed only with a towel, nerves of steel and talent on loan from God, approached the last known whereabouts of the bird: Sally's backyard.

Most of my readers will never have a face down a full-grown rooster, whose engorged cockscomb bristles with beastly rage. And I pray that you never have to. On a good day, men loose their eyes to the firey tempers of these frenetic birds of prey. Who hasn't heard of the illegal cock fights of Mexico and been fascinated by the lurid pleasure that such a spectacle promises? The beast that we were staring down was of that ilk. One look in its cold eye told me: this was a foul pushed to the breaking point.

The neighbor with the towel volunteered to capture the rooster. She had had all of her animal shots and wasn't afraid of feathered death. The rest of us offered her encouragement from behind the wired fence.

She entered the yard with steely determination, but she needed direction. Roosters are masters of camouflage, but I fixed my eye on it. He had settled down into the mottled shade of low-growing weeds -- a typical rooster ploy. The towel-wielder approached her target, but the bird was too crafty! He skitted away towards the front of the house.

Quickly, Sally sprang to the front from the other side of the house to block his escape. But again, the rooster was too crafty to be trapped that easily. It doubled back, sneaking past us into another shadow-filled nook of the backyard. Again, we cornered the beast but before we could lay hands on it, the rooster squeezed through the fence and fled under a parked car!

I knew I had to act. I refused to let this, my adopted neighborhood, be held hostage to one bully cock. I grabbed a shovel and knelt on the ground beside the car and began to poke around in an effort to flush out the beast.

I knew that I had put myself right where the rooster wanted me: at eye level on his turf. I was looking death squarely in the eye, but who wants to live forever?

I thrust and shuffled, but still the bird didn't move. I stepped back and took another quick recon beneath the car. The rooster had holed up behind the front right tire. Clever. But, not clever enough.

Steeling myself, I aimed the shovel carefully and with one final shove, I had finally spooked the rooster from his spot! In this game of chicken, the rooster had blinked. But the hunt wasn't over yet. He was on the move and he wanted revenge.

I had lost sight of the bird for a moment. I assumed that the towel-wielder would catch him. My blood ran cold as I heard my team say: "Oh my God! It's right behind you!" Indeed, I turned to see the gaping maw of our quarry barreling directly towards my left foot.

But the rooster had overplayed his hand. By trying to get me, he had exposed his flank -- a fatal mistake of tactics. Without warning, the rooster found himself rapidly enfolded in a towel and summarily shoved into a chicken-proof wire cage. The crisis was over.

In the continuing struggle of survival, humans had once again emerged on top. For now.

Some imaging-manipulating fool put this app together so that we can all be Steve Colbert.

I hate to say it, but stuff like this heralds the imminent fall from grace known as "jumping the shark" for this fine satire. Of course, that can only mean more Strangers with Candy.

«That's why the students here call me "The Hammer."»

The quite excellent and disturbing blog Religious Freaks quietly notes the extremism, stupidity and general dunderheadedness engendered by taking old books a little too seriously. In particular, I point you to this delightful clip of FG's Peter explaining the opposing views of evolution versus creationism.

The careful viewer will note that neither explanation accurately reflects the nuances of these theories, but still: HA HA.

Check it out!

And I resent the implication that I had something to do with creating this flith with Sally.

One more from You Tube.

Dating is hard. Most people already know this. Men want one thing, women want another. So why not turn over the negotiations to trained professionals.

I assume these guys work on contingency.

UPDATE: Also see: Manny Coon

This techno video explains the futility of war to those of us weened on Space Invaders. Who knew the invaders had such a rich home life?

Dulce et Decorum est pro patria mori.

To the drunk young man who repeatedly asked me to dance on the rotating disco floor and who later incoherently slurred to me in the men's room later that evening, I hope that you made it home alive. I'm sorry if the black and white furry pimp hat gave you the wrong impression of me. In case you thought the world didn't care, one all male couple later asked me, "are you taking that boy home? He is drunk!"

To the "professional girl" and older "gentleman caller" who was "courting" her on the dance floor, I can only hope that your financial transaction was successfully concluded and profitable for both of you.

Finally, to the eighteen-year-old attractive blond who was shooting hoops until closing in the big-hair band bar and who inserted a breath mint into my mouth at the end of the evening, you clearly didn't understand what the pimp hat was trying to tell you about me and perhaps that was my fault. I should have tried to explain it to you instead of slurring incoherently. My bad.

For those that do technical support professionally or otherwise, this article will seem strangely familiar:

«Help Vampires are found in every public online community, from those nearest to our hearts to those furthest from our principles.

Instead of consuming of ill-gotten hemoglobin, these vampires suck the very life and energy out of people. By nature they feed on generous individuals who tend towards helping others, and leave their victims exhausted, bitter and dispirited. »

Remember: telling the stupid and lazy that they are stupid and lazy rarely helps the problem (although that trick does work on me when I'm stupid and lazy).

Update: Also see this Strong Bad email.

Programmers love to argue about which programming languages are better than others. If you listen carefully, you'll notice that there's a hierarchy to the debate. Java programmers laugh at C++. C++ coders deride C monkeys. Everyone laughs at shell hackers. No one can understand assembly programmers and those that "think in LISP" occupy a sublime and knowing orbit above all rest (so they think).

But I'm a Perl hacker first and foremost. Despite some of the more vocal members of the community, Perl is a humble language (with, as its critics will quickly add, much to be humble about). In recent years, I've forced myself out of this comfort zone into the wider world of programming. Like all generalist, I try to pick the right tool for the task. For instance, PHP is a best tool I've found for general web applications, which is why this site uses it. For quick and dirty Windows games, Python (with its pygame library bindings to SDL) stands alone. For repetative system admin tasks, shell scripts and cron combine like Voltron to create superlative software robots. The thing is, most programming languages are pretty similar. They have data types, loops and conditional branching. That's really the bare minimum you need to get things done. Where languages differ is in the services they offer the programmer.

I've heard that you love someone not for his winning attributes, but for his faults. However, I've found that there are definitely some faults that are harder to love than others. This missive is about those faults in Java that keep our relationship forever at the stage of the first date. If Java is your "Main Mama", you may want to stop reading this now.

For my work, I need to hack up a bit of Java that speaks XML-RPC. Now, you may recall that I'm no stranger to working with this protocol. I've written XML-RPC clients and servers in Python, Perl, PHP, ASP and even (God help me) C. But I missed out on Java until now.

No problem, I thought. I'll just look through my book at the chapter Simon St. Laurent wrote about using the helma XML-RPC library for Java. Simon did the lion's share of the book and did the most thorough job of any of us on the project, so I took a look. Funny thing: that library has morphed into the Apache XML-RPC library. Ok, fine. How different could it be? I mean, it was working fine before. How many changes were needed? Perl's Frontier::RPC library has hardly changed in six years (and we use it heavily at Leostream).

As it turns out, the one thing Java does well is faciliate abstractions. With the newest version of the library, you can tweak all kinds of parameters, swap out XML parsers, add additional data types (which defeats the whole effing point of XML-RPC), create new class factories -- the list goes on! In fact, there's a whole class just for configuring the XML-RPC client! Excessive you say? Just wait.

The one thing you can't do with this library is start using it quickly. The main culprit? Missing dependencies. When I tried to run a simple XML-RPC client, it complained about not knowning how to encode the XML-RPC timestamp thingie. Oy. But wait! Weren't JAR files supposed to solve this issue? Wrong again, Fatty!

Ok, so I needed to install subversion just to get the bleeding-edge version of the missing ws-common library. That's not so bad, right? Wrong. I also needed to get a nightly snapshot of the TRUNK code of the main library because the "release" version could not handle structures correctly (the unknown "string" problem). Fine. That happens. It's open source so you've got to expect the release management to get a little "cowboy" sometimes.

At length, my "hello, world" XML-RPC program got up and running. After several phone calls gloating about this teapot triumph, I proceeded on to handling more realistic and complicated data structures. I had my test server return a structure to my Java client that had a value that was an array. In perl, the structure looks something like this:

  { "foo" => "bar",
    "boz" => [ "boom", "doom", "soon" ],
  }

Here's a quick test: how many dictionary classes does Java have? I'm talking about generic collection types that hold key-value pairs. 1? 3? 10? Wrong! It's a trick question. In Java, new Map classes spontaneously generate all the time.

I bring this up because in order to traverse this data structure, I need to know the how to type the objects correctly. Now, in simple programs where you control the data, that's easy. When you have to deal with arbitrary data coming in from an unknown source, Java whips out the hate on you.

Because Java sucks is very advanced, I have to iterate through methods to transverse this structure. Something like the following:

Map my_struct = get_the_struct();

Iterator it = struct.keySet().iterator();
while (it.hasNext()) {
  Object this_key = my_struct.next();
  Object raw_object = result.get(this_key);

   // here comes the good part
   Class c = raw_object.getClass();
   if (c.isArray()) {
       // fetching this object was so nice, I do it twice!
       Object [] this_value = (Object []) result.get(this_key);
       System.out.print(this_key + " => ");
       int i;
       for (i=0; i < this_value.length; i++ ) {
           System.out.print(this_value[i] + ", ");
       }
       System.out.println();
   } else {
     // simple data type
     System.out.println(this_key + " => " + raw_object);
   }
}

It took me about 3 hours to puzzle out this code. It would have been swell for the docs to have an example of handling complex data like arrays and hashes, but then I would have missed out on my afternoon of personal discovery and emotional growth.

After many fruitless web, book, and source code searches, I managed to hack this code to handle my "weird" data. It's crappy, but it works.

The truly loathesome part is the way I had to work with hash values that are arrays. For reasons that aren't clear, I couldn't just use the value returned from a Map if it is an array of Objects. That would be too easy. I had to properly cast the data because Java is a bucket full of venomous hate. Of course, I need to check if the object is, in fact, an array and then fetch the object again for the cast!

Allow me to paint with a very broad brush for a moment. The stunt programming exhibited in the code above is exactly the kind of stupidity that prevents Java folks from learning about what's going on in the rest of the computer universe. Strict data typing is 100%, no-foolin' legalese.

All modern scripting languages handle this kind of "collection of random data types" better than Java. VBScript is only slightly less lawyerly about it, but it too sucks hard on big, stiff data structures (VBScript has two assignment operators: one for objects, one for everything else. Thanks for nothing, Microsoft).

It's enough to really bring me down, man.

What the hell is wrong with these language designers? Can they please stop worrying about continuations, anonymous classes, multiple inheritance, abstract interfaces, factory classes and orthogonality long enough to make a language that's useful for the kind of problems I have to deal with? I live in world of strings. If your language makes dealing with strings hard for me, I will hate you with my fists.

Can I get a "hell ya!"?

Jesus H. Christ.

While I don't like to meta-blog, I do need to point out Sean Burke's particularly biting and accurate berating of this Spanish treatment of the U.S. national anthem. I thought Sean was being hyperbolic in his criticism, simply working up a good crank, but then I listened to the song.

«And then, because mere lyrics and melody are not painful enough, there is the actual performance [4MB mp3]. It is a horror worse than Lovecraft could have imagined, because even he could not have pictured a chorus of Cthulhus gospel-yodeling in the high tradition of Cèline Dion and/or American Idol.»

Worble on like french fry fatten finches, you masters of melody, you saints of salsa!

I'm sitting on some big news. Maybe next week, I can talk about it.

Until then, celebrate the last 999 days of the W presidency with Sean Burke's 999 Names of George W. Bush. Muslims believe that Allah has 99 and to know them all brings enlightment/bliss. To know the 999 names of Bush is simply a way to win a bar bet.

Good thing there's an RSS feed!

UPDATE: Ok. I jumped the gun by a day or two. Sue me.

"Weird Al" Yankovic is the most misunderstood music critic in America. I think it's the "weird" in his name that throws people off. Maybe his addiction polka. Maybe it's the crinkle-curl hair. Whatever the cause, it's a shame because Al's Angry White Boy Polka succinctly details exactly what's ineffably awful about Nu-Metal.

As a genre, Nu-Metal was born in the dying embers of both Grunge rock and "Big Hair" rock (clearly a May-December relationship if there ever was one). A good Nu-Metal band is Helmet (although I'm not a fan, I can tell those guys can rock). The rot set in when Nu-Metal became a corporate commodity and stupid white boys thought that they could rap over wailing distorted guitars. I'm not sure that's how Affirmative Action is supposed to work.

From the mid-nineties on, the Suck knob on Nu-Metal continued to get cranked higher and higher until, well, even Weird Al noticed. In 2004's Poodle Hat, Yankovic went back to his roots with "Angry White Boy Polka." Unlike the polka tune on his first album which seemed to celebrate "classic rock," I get the feeling Al is making a point of showing off the cyclopean banality of the lyrics that populate the most commercially successful examples of Nu-Metal. "Preachy" doesn't really seem to cover for these whiny punks, but judge for yourself. After listening to a few of these tunes, I get the feeling that covering Pat Benatar's "Love is a Battlefield" in this style would be a mega-hit.

I have created a table that lists the source material used in Weird Al's parody. Old folks like me will certainly have avoided most of these excremental twits, but now, no matter your age, you can confidently say, "Staind? Those Nu-Metal guys suck!"

Nu-Metal: a musical STD of nineties.

Band		Song		Album		Sample
PAPA ROACH		Last Resort		INFESTED		Sample
SYSTEM OF A DOWN		Chop Suey		TOXICITY		Sample
THE VINES		Get Free		HIGHLY EVOLVED		Sample
THE HIVES		Hate to say I told you so		VENI VIDI VICIOUS		Sample
WHITE STRIPES		Fell in Love with A Girl		WHITE BLOOD CELLS		Sample
THE STROKES		Last Night		IS THIS IT?		Sample
DISTURBED		Down with the sickness		THE SICKNESS		Sample
RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE		Renegades of Funk		RENEGADES		Sample
LIMP BIZKIT		My Way		CHOCOLATE STARFISH AND THE HOT DOG FLAVORED WATER		Sample
STAIND		Outside		BREAK THE CYCLE		Sample
KID ROCK		Bawitdaba		DEVIL WITHOUT A CAUSE		Sample
P.O.D		Youth of the Nation		SATELLITE		Sample
EMINEM		The Real Slim Shady		THE MARSHALL MATHERS LP		Sample

It's funny how you can know a guy for twenty years and still discover something new about him. Don't worry -- this isn't the start of Brokeback Mountain II.

I've known Zorknapp for nearly twenty years. I've lived with him (platonically) twice. We've been in a band together. We do a radio show together. And yet, there are aspects of my friend that have remained hidden from me for years.

Mike doesn't like nuts (drupes, legumes, seeds, etc. [but he's fine with crazies]).

Now everyone has his own preferences when it comes to food. There's no commandment that we should all like the same things. Variety is the spice of life and whatnot. As a class of food, I don't care for fruit very much (I'm looking at you, raspberries). But Mike really doesn't like nuts. His dislike exceeds merely not wanting to eat them. Ideally, Mike would like a government pogrom to round up and exterminate these much-beloved snack foods.

Mike is quite vocal on this subject. His normally equanimous disposition on most things evaporates when the topic of nuts manifests. He loathes peanut butter; disdains pistachios; ahbors almonds; scorns cashews; rejects chestnuts. The smell of nuts drives all reason from the man. In the struggle against them, there can be no comprise, no quarter. To Mike, the feotid smell of open graves is less offensive than the smallest Reeses Peanut Butter Cup. His ill-will for these tiny nuggets of protein is palpable and oppressive.

In short, he is a nut racist.

I have little doubt that he will someday produce a pamphlet promulgating his nutty jihad to a population of emotional dead but physically violent youths who, because they were raised on Mickey's Big Mouths and stale pretzels, won't know the joy of perfectly salted peanuts. Blinded by their irrational prejudice, the Nut Haters will clash with the Nut Lovers in a conflict that will paint the streets red with blood. Then all that will be left will be cochroaches, who will show no preference between feasting on legumes or on the human corpses of a Nutpocalyptic war.

I hope to God I don't live to see that day.

Sisyphus had his stone. Tantalus had his fruit. My tormentor is opening day at Fenway park. This is the start of my tenth year of suffering through a day filled with loud tourists, street vendors, panhandlers, scammers, Caroline and the occasional flyover by a U.S. fighter jet. I will be in a client office tomorrow for most of the day, but this sort of thing doesn't blow over in a few hours.

Good thing I've got beer in the fridge.

It's been a while since I reported on that unique brand of entertainment available only from my apartment's window that I call "McDonald's Parking Lot Theatre." Tonight's performer wasn't human, but an automaton of lumbering seventies exuberance and existentialist horror.

Today, the weather had finally begun to take on spring-like attributes here in Boston. The past few days have been delightfully cool, with no hint of winter. Today was especially delightful: dry, blue and as sunny as a four-year-old in a candy shop. Workmen continue to feverishly finish up the new deck of Fenway park before opening day (in a week or so). Even now as I write this, the large, UFO-like lights of the park shine through my bedroom windows.

At some point this evening, the relentless grind of dance music began wafting through my apartment. It's the city. It's a warm night. That sort of thing is to be expected. But the music persisted. Was it coming from the park? I moved to investigate.

Although the jumbotron was active, it didn't appear that there was a formal event at the park (sadly, I can tell the difference). I looked down in the parking lot of McDonald's and to my horror, I saw a white metal contraption, filthy with lurid lights, flashing and beguiling. It was like a tour bus of familiar design seen throughout Boston during the day, but this one was festooned with blinky lights and a thrumming subwoofer pounding out dance music to its unseen and sullen passenagers.

The driver left the mobile party in the parking lot while he got a shake or something inside. The delay was long enough for me to get this picture and then the party bus moved on. Fear! Fear and loathing in the streets of Boston! Ai!

I will attempt to remember to grab the camera when I next see the stretch SUVs so popular for bachelorette parties.

The life of a bachelor isn't always an easy one, as this sound clip from Simpson's attests too. Clearly, he needs a better class of junk mail.

The Internet is full of purile, hurtful garbage of the kind that does no one any good. The movie linked to above is perfect example of this.

Why did I make a local cache of it then? Evidence!

UPDATE: Because irony doesn't always transmit well on the interweb, please note that, despite what I said above, I actually enjoyed this little grotesquery. Would I really serve media I disliked?

For years, I've been living a double life. While to the world, I appeared to be an aging programmer and failed musician, the truth was much more sinister. Hidden from everyone, including me, was the ugly, sick truth that this Internet questionnairre exposed.

I am an elf.

And not just an elf, but a capricious, chaotic neutral one at that. A danger to society and friends alike, I march to the blind, mad beat of my own secret drummer. Which explains my secret profession: traveling bard.

They say that admitting you have a problem is the first stage of recovery. Well, so be it.

I am a chaotic neutral elf. Love me for who I am!

Recently, I had to clear out an inbox with 7.5K messages in it. Two were real emails to me about some SOAP articles I had written. About 6 messages were either email digests I had signed up for or other legitimate notifications from services I specifically signed up for. The inbox had been collecting email since I last cleared it out in December, aught five.

I guess a 750-1 ratio of spam to legitimate email is good, right?

There were some interesting gems in the subject lines of some of the deleted spam. I'll share these with you now.

• Cormorant is Treachery of 9 (which is entirely true)
• Fat boy please respond with info (let's cut to the chase...)
• What? Die?? (written by Sartre)
• Do you remember that? Weather
  (everyone talks about it, but no one does anything about it)
• Timely Narcotic Offer (too late for me)

At first, I thought the following article was a piece of right-wing propaganda about lefties not supporting the troops. And then I read more about the protesters. And then I laughed. It's nice to see that conservatives are not a monolithic horde of dittoheads. There are some true freaks in the crowd too.

There's hope for the Mushyheaded Middle yet.

From the Associated Press:

«FORT CAMPBELL, Ky. Wearing leather chaps and vests covered in military patches, a band of motorcyclists rolls from one soldier's funeral to another in hopes their respectful cheers and revving engines will drown out the insults of protesters.

The motorcycle club members calling themselves Patriot Guard Riders are trying to shield mourners from cruel jeers by adherents of a tiny fundamentalist church who picket military funerals to reflect their belief that U.S. combat deaths are a sign God is punishing the United States for harboring homosexuals. Some protesters' signs said, "Thank God for IEDs," the improvised explosive devices, or homemade bombs, that kill many U.S. soldiers. »

Frequently, I find that my funny bone is at odds with my libido. This goes a long way to explaining the rather extended stretch of "singlehood" I've endured. Still, you have to prioritize in life. If I have to choose between having my cake and eating it too, I'll opt for smushing someone's face into the pastry.

That also may account for the bachelorhood thing.

What follows is a message I sent to the owner of the above picture, who chose this to the first image potential suitors would see of her.

Subject: Congratulations!

Body:

Howdy,

Of all the pictures I've seen in personal ads across many web sites, yours wins the impressive distinction of best picture posed with the deadliest live animal.

I, as a former cat owner, would be suspicious of the rather meager chain restraining that tiger. It does appear that you found the good side of his nature though.

One other dubious point of commonality between us is a fondness for board games. Through very little fault of my own, I cohosted a show on Somerville cable access about non-electronic games called The Gameshelf. There's a whole world of new games out there beyond the classics of monopoly, risk, chess, and scrabble.

In any case, take care.

--Joe

In so many ways, I'm really, really awesome. And yet, in exactly the same ways, I'm an idiot too.

My adolescence was in the 1980s. Those that tell me the 80s were cool clearly did not live through them. As evidence of the brutal psychological torment inflicted on me and others of my generation, I submit this shocking archive footage. Music, in the wrong hands on the wrong drugs, can become a weapon of mass destruction (and suckitude).

At least Stevie Wonder never saw the disaster that unfolded around him.

From the I'm getting too old for neologisms department comes this bit of carnal knowledge from New York Magazine: (via TorgoX)

«"The interesting kids kind of gravitate towards each other," Elle had explained earlier. "A lot of them are heteroflexible or bisexual or gay. And what happens is, like, we're all just really comfortable around each other."»

I'm pretty sure that my Generation X will be remember most as that generation that fell between the sex-crazied 60's and the sex-crazied 90's, who spent their formative years in the fearful shadow of AIDS and Nancy Reagan.

God. Damn. It.

As I was walking around my 'hood today, a fellow was walking his dog. It's the Fens; that sort of thing happens a lot. Like most urban areas, Boston has some pretty clear ordinances about cleaning up after your pet's defecation. It's not uncommon to see an owner of a dog carrying a plastic bag of dog poop in one hand and being dragging along by the dog leash in the other. However, there was an additional element in the offing today that led to tragedy: the fairly cold wintry weather of the Northeast.

As a guard against the cold, this fellow (and many others, I noticed) had a warm cup a' joe with him. What could possibly go wrong?

As I passed this fellow, he had just finished picking up after his dog, like a good citizen. However, he had to hold three things in his two hands simultaneously: the coffee, the dog leash and the poop. For reasons best left to the reader's mind, he chose to allocate one hand solely to the task of managing the dog leash and to the other hand fell the twin responsibilities of holding the coffee and the bag of poop!

Needless to say, my delicate and refined sensibilities were bruised.

I can only think of one take away from this: should you find yourself in a similar situation, consider letting the dog run wildly into traffic or not feeding the animal until spring. My Solomon-like wisdom is presented here free of charge.

It's new installment of "Leave it Bush". It's got both Chris Walken and Sam Jackson. What's not to like?

Watch it.

Later, you too can buy some horse pants.

(I wrote this before learning about Bart Ehrman's interview on NPR. Weird.)

This is a musing on those that take a strict constructionist view of Christianity and believe that their version of the Bible is the literal truth of universal history. It is my belief that literalist Christains are in the minority and that the bulk of this group belong to one of the Protestent branches (something that can also be said my family).

As an opening salvo, I'd like to dismiss the notion that because of the group authorship of the Bible and many centuries it took by culturally distinct people to complete it, somehow this would impeded the manuscript from delivering a cogent, self-consistent unified vision of history and theology. This is just so much piffle. Was it not open source advocate Eric Raymond who wrote "with enough eyes, all bugs are shallow?" I say, the more cooks, the merrier. Further, I'd like to point out that the numerous translations, editions and revisions that the Bible has gone through before it was ever printed in English have had no impact on the veracity or integrity of the manuscript. Thankfully, no copying errors occurred during that process. All the ancient Hewbrew, with its connotations and cultural references, was faithfully reproduced in ancient Greek and then again in Latin. Finally, all the books that were excluded by the Vatican during the Council of Trent weren't important. So, from an epistemological perspective, there's nothing to impune the credibility of The Bible as the source literal truth.

mmm...Then again, maybe all of those points undermine the Bible's credibility after all. Irony is hard!

A literalist interpretation of the Bible leaves so much of what is good and valuable about the faith on the table. Christianity already had this debate centuries ago in the form of Thomas Aquinas, who attempted to rationationize the apparent paradoxes of the budding religion with Aristotelian philosophy. Using church doctrine in the face of scientific evidence has proven untenable, as the Vatican eventually realized in the case of Galileo in the seventeenth century. That's why when Darwin came along in the nineteenth century, the Pope cleverly moved the church out of the way of the debate and instead positioned Christianity's mythology as an answerto transcendental questions such as: how did this all start and where is it all going?

Literalist Christianity is Faith-lite. The followers of this doctine believe that all of life's tough questions are answered in the Book and those questions that aren't, aren't important. But here, they "misunderestimate" the faith. The Bible is written in metaphor and parable, which may or may not be applicable to the reader's life. It isn't enough to know that the Earth was created in six days, that the Earth was flooded, that the God picked on poor old Job or that Pharaoh was beset with plagues. Those are interesting tidbits, but they don't explain how to make internal combustion engines or an articulated prosthesis, whether capital punishment is compatible with Democracy or even how to mix cement. The literalist unfairly expects a book of ancient stories to directly answer today's problems. That's bad thinking and poor theology. And it misses the many opportunities for humor inherent in the Bible.

For instance, the first story a reader of the Book encounters is the Genesis creation myth. The more I mull this story, the better it gets. It is a thumbnail sketch of male/female relationships. While I reject the misogynist j'accuse of pinning the fall of man on Eve, there is a more humane and, to modern readers, familiar story here. Consider this dialog, which might have occurred after The Fall in the household of Adam and Eve.

ADAM: Morning, Eve.

EVE: Morning, Adam.

ADAM yawns, scratches himself.

A: So, what's for breakfast?

E: Thorns and thistles

A: Thorns and thistles?

E: That is what I said.

A: Didn't we have that for breakfast yesterday?

E: And for dinner last night.

A: Damn. I hate thorns and thistles.

ADAM begins to dig through his bowl of food.

A: Remember how sweet the fruits of the Garden were? And the cool shade of our heavenly bower?

E: Yes.

A: And remember how kind all the animals were to us?

E: Yes. Your breakfast is getting colder.

A: And the way it never rained during the day and never got too cool at night?

EVE glowers at ADAM, who is lost in revery.

A: Say, why did we leave Eden?

E: Adam, you stone brain! You know perfectly well what happened. Now eat your thorns and thistle before the beetles come and eat them for you.

A: Oh, yeah! I remember now. We ate from the one tree we were told not to. I can't remember the name of the tree or why it was off limits, but the fruit was awful. Bitter.

EVE glowers more intensely at ADAM.

A: Stupid tree.

E: Is there a point to this or are you just tired of having sex with me?

ADAM looks startled.

A: No, no! Not tired of sex! Sex is good! Better than thorns and thistles.

E: High praise, indeed.

ADAM and EVE focus on eating their food.

A: Say, Eve. Where are the boys?

E: Able is in the fields watching the sheep. Cain is at the neighbor's house.

A: Which neighbors?

E: THE Neighbors! Jim and Dora Nieghbors, who have the two daughters. You remember them, right? We play bridge with them on Sundays?

A: Oh, those neighbors!

EVE gets angry.

E: You bastard! You were thinking of that little tramp Lilith again, weren't you?

A: mmm, what? No! No, not her. Definitely not thinking that wild animal of unbridled sexual aggression.

EVE throws her bowl at ADAM.

A: Come on, Eve! It's been ten years since that affair ended. Can't you let it go?

E: I don't know why I took you back! I should have gone home to mother's.

A: Well, technically, I think I am your mother. You know, that shared rib bone thing...

EVE breaks down in tears.

All good literture has a life beyond the page. Literalists deny that life and the wisdom and joy that follows.

As a long time reader of the very not safe for work jerkcity, I've come to admire the tenacity and artistry of pumping out violent homoerotic humor every day for years on end. I knew that this comic was based on IRC chat room discussions done with a special version of Microsoft Chat, but I didn't realize how much stupid fun it was to "put together" a comic. It's the closest I've been to having the power of an editor.

So, you can click on the picture above to get a larger version. There's nothing dirty in it, but some how, after so much jerkcity consumption, I still think there is.

Spelling mistakes are funny.

This post isn't about Gibson's religious beliefs. It's about his beard. What was he thinking when he grew that horrible, horrible mess? We've all experimented with beards. Some people look great with them. Mel's not one of them. Ew.

Death metal. Always maligned, oft-overlooked and rarely appreciated, this genre of music finds its finest voice in the soulfully articulately melodies of Impaled Northern Moonforest. Eschewing the familiar territory of industrial-grade distorted electric guitars for the more sensitive medium of acoustic steel string, these masters of metal, these bards of the barbarous thrill the listener with dynamic tales of grotesqueries, mutilations and other things I couldn't quite make out.

Perhaps this fan-contributed flash video distills the essence of their wonderfulness into a jagged little pill (with an easy-swallow coating).

How long before the serpent of L.A. corrupts this young, fresh talent is anyone's guess.

BevNet reviews:

«Peanut Butter Liquid Cereal is one of the only (if not the only) peanut butter flavored beverage we've sampled. This uniquely-flavored dairy-based beverage not only has a peanut butter flavor, but it also has the "cereal blend" that gives Liquid Cereal its name. This, combined with the beverage's slightly thick consistency, does make you feel as though you are consuming a mixture of cereal and milk. Put all this together and you have something that, although lightly sweet in comparison, is definitely remniscent of a children's breakfast cereal. Definitely worth a try.»

From the what were they thinking? department comes this wholly unasked for breakfast treat: liquid cereal. Traditional cereal already comprises slurries like oatmeal and cold soups like cereal and milk. Did we as a species really need to push the envelope of amorphous food to this degree? I suspose if NASA had developed it for astronauts, I wouldn't be complaining so vehemently. Or maybe I would. This stuff sounds pretty nasty.

Even as a big booster of peanut butter, I can't recommend it as the foundation for a refreshing beverage. Are people even eating a lot of peanut butter in general for breakfast? This is a new tread that I've been entirely uninformed about.

I urge the makers of this product to bring their culinary genius to other meals of the day. Here are some suggestions:

• ichorous lunch: peanut butter and jelly
• viscous snack: crushed jellybeans
• liquescent tea: sugar biscuits and jam
• brunch slurry: onion bagel with lox
• fluid grub: nachos supreme
• watery dinner: severely mashed potatoes
• runny repast: fish sticks with tartar sauce
• molten mess: spicy chipped beef, corn and toast
• jiggly din din: chicken kiev with asperagus
• pulpy picnic: pepperoni cheesesteak manwich with chili fries

No, really. There's no need to thank me.

NPR recently touched on my personal hell: the incessant singing of Sweet Caroline at Red Sox games.

No one seems to know how, eight painful and toneless years ago hordes of drunken Red Sox fans began to ululate to the chorus of that horrid, sickeningly-sweet tune, Sweet Caroline. It's not that I hate Neil Diamond's work in toto; being a child victim of the seventies War on Good Taste, I'm to be accorded a certain amount of slack in my musical predilections. It's not entirely due to my existentialist loathing of Red Sox fans loitering outside my apartment. The central irritant of this insufferable phenomenon must be found virology.

Viruses are the most primal of creatures on planet Earth. They are composed of nothing more than a protective protein coat and strains of DNA (or RNA). So humble are they, that some biologists debate whether to classify viruses as life at all. But for now, grant me that these critters are among the living and indeed may be the most ancient form of life that exists today.

If Darwinian evolution is right (and it is), then life began in oceans of amino acids bundled into compounds called proteins. At some point, these proteins gained the remarkable property of self-replication. That is, some of these proteins made mirror images of themselves using the abundant material floating around it. These copies went on to make more copies and the wheel of life started a-turning.

But, as Londo Mollari noted, it is an imperfect universe. In making copies of itself, sometimes the protiens aren't assembled entirely correctly. This is a mutation. Most mutations are harmful and kill off or disadvantage the offspring, but a small number of these lead to better adapted, more survivable life. So, given a couple of million years, several radical climate changes and a handful keyhole extinction events, these tiny replicators consolidate into colonies which form fish, amphibians, retiles, mammals and finally, you and me. All thanks to little mistakes.

Viruses make mistakes all the time, which is a bit sad considering they only do one thing: make copies of themselves. Besides the shear simplicity of these buggers, their penchant for mutating makes them difficult to contain with immunization and hard to isolate. Watch the most excellent movie, The Andromeda Strain for a clear picture of the terror contain in these unseen specks of goo.

And it's the little mistakes that have, over nearly a decade, created another monster. Mutated, the once quiet, abashed chanting of the Sweet Caroline chorus across the street at Fenway Park has morphed into a hideous enormity of volume, grunts and self-congradulatory swagger that, without fail, chills my spine when I hear the opening salvo of cheesy disco horns. It is a Lovecraftian horror beyond reckoning. Ïa! Ïa! Cthulhu fhtagn!

Still, it beats those thrice-damned low-pass fly overs by F16's. Would it be too much to publish the schedule of these fly overs so that I might not think WWIII has begun? A pox on your grumblecakes!

Update: As I finish editting this entry, some jackball is standing outside on the corner of Boylston and Yawkee Way wailing inarticulately and brandishing a sign that says "MVP API(L?) for President," with appears to be in reference to some sort of base-ball tournament recently concluded. Fie.

Last weekend, I was invited to two days of heavy drinking, orgiastic eating and golf. I hope I haven't startled readers of this blog by admitting I use golf recreationally. The event was arranged by my brother Archie, as it has been for the last three years. Its main purpose to reunite his Babson college cohorts (class of '83) for forty eight hours of mayhem and bad behavior.

Now, if you know that I graduated high school in '89 and you do the math, you'll notice that I'm much, much younger than these old men. What could we possibly have in common to talk about? As it turns out, we have a lot in common because I visited Archie while he was enrolled at Babson. That means that he brought his ten year old brother to visit his college, his frat and his friends. The psychological damage from that experience continues to this day.

While the strict rules of the event prevent me from detailing what happened during the weekend (naturally, what happens on Nantucket, stays on Nantucket), I can mention the results of the golf tournament. There were three teams of 3-4 golfers playing scramble golf, in which each member shots and the best shot is used. This means you've got about four players taking the same shot each time.

I'm long out of practice at golf, although I occasionally do get to driving ranges and putt-putt courses. Consequently, I materially contributed to the team's success with a handful of decent drives and putts. Sadly, my medium game of chipping is utterly in ruin. I couldn't chip my way out of a bag of Ruffles. Fortunately, I only needed to perform 1/4 of the time (a statistic which fails to impress the ladies, it seems).

Our team shot last and as luck would have it, the tourament came down to our performance on the last hole, a par 5. We were running a little over par for the back nine, as I recall. We needed to birdie the last hole to win, or par to tie. Our team was drunk, er, fatigued and not driving too well. We did get to the green in 2 strokes, but our ball was a solid 35 feet from the pin.

The first attempt to make the putt showed that the green was running slowly. The next two attempts confirmed the first observation. As the rest of the tournament players gathered around to watch the outcome, the taunting started. I, the self-acknowledged rookie, had stepped up to take the last shot of the game.

I saw that the green was basically flat. The primary difficulty was the distance and the sluggish green. This worked to my putting strength, which is in regulated the force I apply to the stroke. This is my primary skill at pool too. My wetware doesn't process geometry well on the fly.

As I settled into the shot, the pressure dial got bumped up when one of the other player's whipped out a camera to record the last stage of the game. I addressed the ball, shut out the external world (which I really, really good at doing) and took my swing.

In attaining the Zen no-mind condition, the ball seemed to roll for about fifteen minutes. Had I put too much muscle into it? Not enough? If the shot missed, would my brother (who was on my team [or was I on his?]) ever invite me to another weekend event?

As the ball slowly rolled to a stop, time resumed it's normal pace. I found that I managed to put the ball within one foot of the pin. A great wail was released by the assembled throng, part astonishment, part grief. Nothing is so sweet as the tears of my opponents. I easily knocked the ball in for a birdie and the victory.

It is true that few poets will sing of my triumph that day. No artist will erect a statue on the green to my glory. But I will know that for one brief moment, there was a most unlikely hero of the hour who went by the name Joe Johnston.

Special thanks and appreciation is due to the Family Manix for hosting our motley mob and to the Truesdales for happy hour. Both contributions were vital to the success of the weekend. Thanks also to Archie for his logistical skills and uncanny ability to awaken earlier than most of us to cook breakfast.

I was first introduced to The Onion in the mid-nineties. Each new issue was a bundle of joy adding to the mystique of a fledging Web. Some suggest that The Onion has lost its edge, but I'm not so sure.

Last year, the following fake news story was emitted:

«Would someone tell me how this happened? We were the fucking vanguard of shaving in this country. The Gillette Mach3 was the razor to own. Then the other guy came out with a three-blade razor. Were we scared? Hell, no. Because we hit back with a little thing called the Mach3Turbo. That's three blades and an aloe strip. For moisture. But you know what happened next? Shut up, I'm telling you what happened -- the bastards went to four blades. Now we're standing around with our cocks in our hands, selling three blades and a strip. Moisture or no, suddenly we're the chumps. Well, fuck it. We're going to five blades.»

--James Kilts, CEO/President of Gillette: Feb, 2004

The strategic use of profanity, bravado and whimsy made this article a winner when I saw it. I mean, what moron would really create a 5-bladed razor? Or care that much about shaving technology? I have trouble using the 3-blade one. The face is enormous and unwieldy. So, the five blades idea is just right out.

Unfortunately, not everyone is good at picking up on irony. Clearly the R&D guys at Gillette aren't.

«"Gillette Fusion is more than just a next generation shaving brand, it's the future of shaving," said James M. Kilts, Chairman, President and CEO, The Gillette Company. "Gillette Fusion extends our rich history of innovation. It's a breakthrough platform that will continue to drive our category leadership."

Both shaving systems feature a breakthrough 5 blade Shaving Surface(TM) technology on the front of the cartridge, with blades spaced 30 percent closer together than MACH3 blades. The combination of adding more blades and narrowing the inter-blade span creates a "Shaving Surface" that distributes the shaving force across the blades, resulting in significantly less irritation and more comfort. The Precision Trimmer(TM) blade, a single blade on the back of the cartridge, allows men to easily trim sideburns, shave under the nose and shape facial hair with control and precision. »

--Gillette press release: Sept., 2005

Again, I remind readers that The Onion is strictly meant to entertain and not pollute the future timestream with dire predictions of doom. Because that's not funny at all.

It seems that a giant wind storm is decimating this great country, spreading misery and malcontent in its wake. I'm talking about the punditry surrounding the government response to Katrina. It seems clear to me that no one level of government can hog all the blame for this incredible failure that has cost hundreds or even thousands of American lives and will affect all of us financially. Will every September of presidential inaugural years include heartbreaking and unprecedented castrophes from now on?

Via Fark.com comes this list of quotes from the "compassionate conservatists" currently running the asylum, er, country. Here's a small selection:

• "I don't think anybody anticipated the breach of the levees." --President Bush
• "Considering the dire circumstances that we have in New Orleans, virtually a city that has been destroyed, things are going relatively well." --FEMA Director Michael Brown
• "I have not heard a report of thousands of people in the convention center who don't have food and water." --Homeland Security Secretary Michael Chertoff
• "I mean, you have people who don't heed those warnings and then put people at risk as a result of not heeding those warnings. There may be a need to look at tougher penalties on those who decide to ride it out and understand that there are consequences to not leaving." -- Rick Santorum [ed. a personal favorite which I read as "the poor need to be punished for their willful poverty"]
• "What didn't go right?" -- President Bush
• "Now tell me the truth boys, is this kind of fun?" --House Majority Leader Tom Delay

This does beg the questions: how many distasters does it take to topple a presidency? How much indifference to the average American's security will the electorate suffer before holding their leaders accountable? As I frequently say, leaders don't get respect for their power, but for the responsibility that they carry. Even if you think the Feds have been burdened with more than the appropriate amount of the blame for the failed Katrina preparations and remediations (which given the number of outlets of blathering is probably true), I hope we can agree that quotes above are unfortunate.

And yes, Tom Delay, this was kind of fun!

As a valuable public service anouncement, Fark offers this thread to all those seeking to improve their dating life.

I, for one, welcome our Fark overlords.

Memepool has an entry about rap stars covering the lilywhite lilith himself, Phil Colins. One can understand the occasional cover of "In the Air Tonight," but "Sussudio"? The mind reels. But wait, there's more: Urban Renewal. It's a whole album of Collins covers by "urban and hip-hop stars".

Good gravy, someone even covered "Against All Odds." shudder

I need to up my dosage of anti-nostalgia pills.

Australia's Herald Sun is reporting:

«Mad cow disease could have been caused by cattle feed contaminated with human remains, an expert said yesterday.

Prof. Alan Colchester claims body parts in India, infected with a human form of the disease, may have become mixed with animal carcasses that were imported to Britain. In the 1960s and '70s, Britain imported hundreds of thousands of tonnes of ground-up animal parts to make feed and fertiliser. Half of it came from India. The theory overturns past views of how mad cow disease began.»

When my people come to power, all food will be made from nutrious and guilt-free seaweed

I knew I should have made a trip to New Orleans in my misspent youth and now it's too late. I guess I'll just have to be satisified visiting these guys instead.

«The Internet is just a world passing around notes in a classroom. That's all it is. All those media companies say, "We're going to make a killing here." You won't because it's still only as good as the content.»

In celebration of 75 years of Grant Wood's American Gothic, the crazy Farkers at fark.com have posted their own takes on the iconic work. These interpretations range for the irrelevant to the tasteless, but here's my favorite. Somehow, it reminds me of the Star Wars kid.