Reich der Träume (Nico)

Time

McSweeny's

AMERICAN
GIRL DOLLS WRITE
TO PRESIDENT BUSH.

BY KATE HAHN

- - - -

Felicity
A COLONIAL GIRL

It's 1774 and I am learning penmanship at Miss Manderly's school. I hope you find my quill scribblings legible, as I have a serious question about the inevitable War of Independence. The Patriots say we must fight in order to have a democratically elected leader, privacy rights, and freedom of speech. Yet I understand that you, along with Messrs. Cheney and Rumsfeld, are dismantling these very things. This vexes me. When I am riding my realistically rendered chestnut mare, Penny, or sitting in my scaled-down Windsor writing chair, I ask: Why must our fittest young men die if the Revolution will prove meaningless? If you will make yourself king, should we not avoid the bloodshed altogether? Please write back to me at Merriman Farm, the Commonwealth of Virginia. Lives are at stake.

More here.

AN OVERHEARD
CONVERSATION
AT THE SUBURBAN
NEIGHBORHOOD POOL,
IF THE SUBURBAN
NEIGHBORHOOD POOL
WERE IN DEADWOOD.

BY KARI ANNE ROY

- - - -

MOM 1: Fucking Homeowners Association cocksuckers. Are they so slow in the ass-fucking cerebrum as to not allow a goddamned simple, commonplace, gullet-pleasing peanut-fucking-butter sandwich on the premises of their fucking pool patio?

MOM 2: Fucking power-hungry vulturine twats is what they are, that Homeowners Association you speak of.

MOM 1: I mean, fuck me if I'm gonna take the three angelic fucking spawn of my hooch and force them to hunker their tiny selves down in the back of the sweltering cocksucking Odyssey just to masticate a PB&J and imbibe some goddamned Mott's. Fuck.

MOM 2: Want I should write a letter to the HOA fuckers and invite them to a civil fucking sit-down where we can discuss this fucking asinine and irritating issue face to face?

More here.

Around the 'Sphere

1. You can find a link to an interesting interview with Hunter S. Thompson over on the Owl Farm Blog. He talks about journalism post 9/11 and what was then the upcoming first anniversary of the attacks. Not that any of us need to be reminded that Bush & Co. are the most vile form of swine ever to walk upright.
2. Charles Bernstein discusses the phenomenology of Bob Dylan here at the Brooklyn Rail. If you haven't read Dylan's Chronicles, I highly recommend it.
3. History of Rum.
   
4. So Rummy thinks critics of the Iraq War suffer from moral confusion. How does he explain the troops who are AWOL after completing tours in Iraq?
   
   

Work in Progress

Noah Takes A Picture of Himself Everyday for Six Years

Human Castle

FYI

According to my son, a cockroach can survive a week without its head.

Cockroach FAQ here. Pestworld for Kids site here.

Feeling Gregor Samsa

SOCIAL SECURITY
DENIES GREGOR SAMSA'S
DISABILITY CLAIM.

By Alex St. Andrews
- - - -

Important Notice

GREGOR SAMSA Is Not Eligible for SSI

We are writing about GREGOR SAMSA's claim for Supplemental Security Income (SSI) payments. Based on a review of his/her medical condition, he/she does not qualify for SSI payments on this claim. This is because he/she is not disabled or blind under our rules.

The Decision on GREGOR SAMSA's Case

You listed the following impairment(s) on your SSI application:

I AM A GIGANTIC COCKROACH

DEPRESSION

BACK PAIN

You said the above impairment(s) affected you in the following way(s):

I CANNOT STAND OR WALK UPRIGHT OR SPEAK ANY HUMAN LANGUAGE

I CANNOT HANDLE OR MANIPULATE OBJECTS WITH MY MANY LEGS OR ANTENNAE

WHEN I AM ON MY BACK I HAVE DIFFICULTY RIGHTING MYSELF

MY FAMILY HAS IMPRISONED ME IN MY ROOM AND IS FEEDING ME SCRAPS

Get the rest here.

You Had Me At Camus

Looks like "The Decider" is on his way to becoming *gak* a reader! Guess he'll try anything to boost his popularity. Check out his complete summer reading list here. You've got to hand it to him, a man who claims that he only reads the newspaper to "get a flavor of what's moving" and can barely form a sentence has read Camus' The Stranger and discussed existentialism with Tony Snow.

"He found it an interesting book and a quick read," said Mr Snow. "I don't want to go too deep into it, but we discussed the origins of existentialism."

And to think it all started five years ago with My Pet Goat. Check out the Supplemental Reading List here.

Note to GB: Do not wait for the last judgment, it takes place every day. - Camus

Anything you'd like to suggest George read?

The Most Important Meal of the Day

Pluto est Mort

LOUISIANA 7:00AM EST
"The Science of Astronomy must always be open to change. This rings true in our industry as well" said Lem Figg, an animation industry spokesman.
Lovable cartoon dog Pluto was given a last meal and shot behind a bunkhouse for aging "toon" animals. The bunkhouse is purportedly owned by Hanna-Barbera with ties to Disney. A visibly shaken Deputy Dawg said "This is the part of my job I could easily do without. I'm so tired." An older, greyer, and unusually thoughtful Dawg continued "What can we do? We reflect the real world. Why Pluto? Why couldn't that planet have been named Muskie?" In the doorway of the bunkhouse, an aging Droopy, frowning even more than usual, spoke softly. "So sad, so... Steinbeck." Burial is scheduled for Saturday morning. For the kids, a "live feed" of the funeral is expected.

Interruption

So you walked in on an old man peeing in the bathroom and neither one of you seemed embarrassed. He asked you for coffee - convenient because you so happened to be in your favorite coffee spot, and odd because most people keep the door locked. "No," you beg off, still holding the door open as he washes his hands and wipes his nose on the wet paper towel. "I'm Tompur" and he steps through the doorway and yes, this is the same cafe where day in and day out, you arrive in the morning and work until lunchtime over cappucino and croissant but now a separate world since this encounter and everyone down the long yellow hall staring at you while they wait to relieve themselves.

Since last Friday, it's been much like this. As if you stepped off the train to a world familar to the last detail but robbed of all convention. Freeing and terrifying, not sure how to follow the thinking, the experience, unsure of your threshold and tipping off towards insanity might not be your most pragmatic response.

"No. No." You beg off coffee and Tompur nods his head. He understands.
"Some other time. You're with someone?"
"Yes. Yes."

Lying and we only just met. Upstairs. Work. Notes. An attempt at novelization. Fruitless. And you, importantly, don't hunger for companionship, perhaps best to keep encounters short and tumble the memory around later like butterscotch toffee after pasta. You world has turned. Husband left informing of communicable disease and heated affair with close office associate and all the late nights and calls to apologize for missing dinners and good-bye parties for mutual acquaintances seem somehow obvious in the face of the sour truth and your embarrassment.

Hasty doctor's appointment for testing. Patronizing looks over a mahogany desk remind you of the men who've never quite stepped up to the plate or deserted altogether for no pressing reason. The violent, dodgy ones stay. Cling on in desperation. Stupid choices, unkindness, and betrayal. Wise up and move on. Study war no more.

Why does the work go on? Denial and uncertainty of the next step. You go through the motions, eye on the downspout. Can you keep this up? Suppose yes and order more coffee hoping Tompur takes no interest. Imagine unrestrained sex in the bathroom with man two feet away from you, but you require someone younger and less blonde. Maybe by lunchtime the opportunity will present itself. No. These things only come around once and now you are in no position for spontaneity.

Struggle to hold off invasion as dreams from the night before flood brainpan while you're trying to hand dollars to the barrista. Nightmares of leper colonies and the one only before twilight where a small blemish transmorgified into an enormous skinbag on your left calf and somehow expanded until clothing became inconvenient and you considered joining the circus, if only briefly, before waking to soft oranges, a full moon, and the wolf at the door.

Seen, But Not Heard

SILLY THINGS
MY 3-YEAR-OLD SAID
THAT I'M CERTAIN THE
REST OF THE WORLD
WOULD FIND SWEET
AND CUTE.

BY Dan Kennedy

After a Walk in the Park

ME: Did you like having our silly time today?
Did you like our walk?

HIM: I saw ... walky ... and ... (Starts giggling.)

ME: You saw a walky?

HIM: I will crush you.

ME: (Silence.)

HIM: Be certain that I am your undoing.
I am everything. There were three things
in my beginning: my interrupted biological
sleep, a birth, and the end to a warm darkness
and silence. And now I am here with you.
And a reckoning is coming, that's all I'm saying.

Get the rest here. Found via Get Down!

Don't Miss This Movie

I'm a fortunate movie lover. I came of age as an adult viewer between 1969 and '73. Directors like Sam Peckinpah, John Cassavetes, and yes, Clint Eastwood fed me. Their work still sits in my guts like a hot steaming bowl of cinematic Maltex. Actor Tommy Lee Jones has crafted a film that owes a lot to those days. It oozes Peckinpah and Jones himself oozes Warren Oates. It's the best thing I've ever seen him do and I love his work. And what a cast. I'm beginning to think if you see that country musician Dwight Yoakam is acting in a project, that's all you need to know. He picks good stuff. Check him out in "Slingblade" if you haven't already. And musician Levon Helm. Barry Pepper, January Jones and Julio Cedillo. All these and more round out this casting coup. The film is called "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada". It's a beautifully shot fable set in present day Texas and Mexico. I'll say no more about the story. Get the DVD, some popcorn, and a couple of cold ones and let it unfold.

On Notice

Generate your own here.

You Know Who You Are

Spencer Elevator Company

According to Wikipedia, Planned Obsolescence was first developed in the 1920's. A guy named Spencer apparently missed the memo. Five days a week I deliver boxes to a building in San Francisco that has a wood and metal freight elevator. Installed by Spencer Elevator Company in 1928. It ain't pretty. It works like a charm.
Spencer Elevator Company exists no more. If poor misguided Mr.Spencer had built something that fell apart once in a while so he could sell some replacement product, perhaps things would be different. A giant corporation. A family of monied Spencer heirs posing with cocktails in a glossy society magazine. Nope. Just an elevator I use every day. Absolutely no foresight.

Gary Hart on the Middle East

Anita Thompson interviews Gary Hart on the Owl Farm Blog. Count Mr. Hart among others who issued warnings before September 11th (John O'Neill comes to mind).

Kids Make Johnny Depp Laugh

My daughter has no idea who Johnny Depp is, but she loves this interview. Who wouldn't?

Neil Finn - Last To Know

Starlings in Flight

Mini Review of "Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man"

I'm writing a review of "Leonard Cohen:I'm Your Man", a movie about songwriter and poet Leonard Cohen. So why post a picture of Leonard Cohen and Bono? Why the hell not? Everyone else is doing it. Bitter? Just a tad, but first off, I really enjoyed this movie. The bulk of this flick was other artists performing Cohen's work. Nick Cave, Beth Orton, Rufus & Martha Wainwright, Kate & Anna McGarrigle, Anthony, and more. The respect came through. Not to get too crunchy, but they were sometimes more like vessels of Cohen's work than performers. Even physically. I'm guessing most were graduates of The Joe Cocker School of Physical Expressionism. Sprinkled amongst these tributes were interesting tidbits about L.C. himself with different artists giving their brief impressions. Impressions are great. I love hearing impressions. And then there was Bono. He got more screen time. Consequently, his impressions turned into analysis. I'm no expert, but analysis of any great artist's work, especially when they're still alive and kicking, bugs the hell out of me. Bono going into any detail of what Leonard Cohen is about is like watching Lenny Bruce do a set and then having it broken down for you by David Spade. I blame director Lian Lunson for this. Unless Bono was in the editing room waving a gun around, there should have been a lot more Bono film stock on the floor or in that little Mac wastebasket. I digress. This was Leonard Cohen's soiree, and with the performances and most of the snippets, this sundae was ready for the cherry on top. A performance by the man himself. Performing "Tower of Song". That voice. You could feel the collective smile in the theatre. And a loving close up of Bono in the band. Then the power of Cohen. Then another lingering close up of Bono in the band. And finally Cohen. Mostly Cohen. Glad I saw it. Lian, you do good work. Next doc, stay focused on whose party it is. Avoid the temptation of training your lens too long on the gabby famous guy in the middle of the room next to the clam dip.

A Series of Tubes & Wacky Rubes

John Stewart on Net Neutrality and Gambling in Your Bathroom!
Gack! What's next? Dogs and Cats, living together?




John Hodgman's Daily Show Net Neutrality Report



Check out the Save the Internet Coalition here.

Now On Sale! Plus Hacking NASA

Jesus games of chance & skill. Get 'em here.

Hacker tells BBC he found a picture of a UFO on NASA computer. Get Down!

45,000 Bottle Rockets

Hey Owen, We're Not Dignan You Anymore

Steely Dan writes a letter to Luke Wilson concerning his brother. You know, Owen. A funny, brilliant way for the major dudes to be pissed off about the movie You, Me and Dupree ripping off their song. Check it out here. Cousin Dupree lyrics here. Obscure Zal Yanovsky reference here and here. And if you haven't seen Bottle Rocket, honestly, you should. Filthy Critic review of You, Me and Dupree here.

Spam Ditty

Spammers, oh you vexing spammers.
For you, we should build more slammers.
Pilot fish without a shark.
Suck on people smart as hammers.

Bottom of the barrel.
Lowest kind of whore.
Crooks of old at least had guts.
They screwed us door to door. -Reverend

Comments Are Moderated

Okay. So here's the deal. Welcome to the Piefurcation blog and feel free to leave a comment. I don't care if you agree with what's written here. You can leave an opposing opinion and links to information supporting your opinion. Just have something to say that adds to the conversation. We accept questions, comments, funny stories. It's all good. Spam, however, is not welcome and will be deleted.

Martha Wainwright on Letterman

All There is to Know About Adolph Eichmann

Eyes: Medium
Hair: Medium
Weight: Medium
Height: Medium
Distinguishing features: None
Number of fingers: Ten
Number of toes: Ten
Intelligence: Medium
What did you expect?
Talons?
Oversize incisors?
Green saliva?
Madness?
Leonard Cohen, 1964

A Devout Meditation in Memory of Adolf Eichmann

One of the most disturbing facts that came out in the Eichmann trial was that a psychiatrist examined him and pronounced him perfectly sane. I do not doubt it at all, and that is precisely why I find it disturbing.

If all the Nazis had been psychotics, as some of their leaders probably were, their appalling cruelty would have been in some sense easier to understand. It is much worse to consider this calm, "well-balanced," unperturbed official conscientiously going about his desk work, his administrative job which happened to be the supervision of mass murder. He was thoughtful, orderly, unimaginative. He had a profound respect for system, for law and order. He was obedient, loyal, a faithful officer of a great state. He served his government well.

He was not bothered much by guilt. I have not heard that he developed any psychosomatic illnesses. Apparently he slept well. He had a good appetite, or so it seems. True, when he visited Auschwitz, the Camp Commandant, Hoess, in a spirit of sly deviltry, tried to tease the big boss and scare him with some sights. Eichmann was disturbed, yes. He was disturbed. Even Himmler had been disturbed, and had gone weak at the knees. Perhaps, in the same way, the general manager of a big steel mill might be disturbed if an accident took place while he happened to be somewhere on the plant. but of course what happened at Auschwitz was not an accident: just the routine upleasantness of the daily task. One must shoulder the burden of daily monotonous work for the Fatherland. Yes, one must suffer discomfort and even nausea from upleasant sights and sounds. It all comes under the heading of duty, self-sacrifice, and obedience. Eichmann was devoted to duty, and proud of his job.

The sanity of Eichmann is disturbing. We equate sanity with a sense of justice, with humaneness, with prudence, with the capacity to love and understand other people. We rely on the sane people of the world to preserve it from barbarism, madness, destruction. And now it begins to dawn on us that it is precisely the sane ones who are the most dangerous.

It is the sane ones, the well-adapted ones, who can without qualms and without nausea aim the missiles and press the buttons that will initiate the great festival of destruction that they, the sane ones, have prepared. What makes us so sure, after all, that the danger comes from a psychotic getting into position to fire the first shot in a nuclear war? Psychotics will be suspect. The sane ones wlil keep them far from the button. No one suspects the sane, and the sane ones will have perfectly good reasons, logical, well-adjusted reasons, for firing the shot. They will be obeying sane orders that have come sanely down the chain of command. And because of their sanity they will have no qualms at all. When the missiles take off, then, it will be no mistake.

We can no longer assume that because a man is "sane" he is therefore in his "right mind." The whole concept of sanity in a society where spiritual values have lost their meaning is itself meaningless. A man can be "sane" in the limited sense that he is not impeded by his disordered emotions from acting in a cool, orderly manner, according to the needs and dictates of the social situation in which he finds himself. He can be perfectly "adjusted." God knows, perhaps such people can be perfectly adjusted even in hell itself.

And so I ask myself: what is the meaning of a concept of sanity that excludes love, considers it irrelevant, and destroys our capacity to love other human beings, to respond to their needs and their sufferings, to recognize them also as persons, to apprehend their pain as one's own? Evidently this is not necessary for "sanity" at all. It is a religious notion, a spiritual notion, a Christian notion. What business have we to equate "sanity" with "Christianity?" None at all, 0bviously. The worst error is to imagine that a Christian must try to be "sane" like everybody else, that we belong in our kind of society. That we must be "realistic" about it. We must develop a sane Christianity: and there have been plenty of sane Christians in the past. Torture is nothing new, is it? We ought to be able to rationalize a little brainwashing, and genocide, and find a place for nuclear war, or at least for napalm bombs, in our moral theology. Certainly some of us are doing our best along those lines already. There are hopes! Even Christians can shake off their sentimental prejudices about charity, and become sane like Eichmann. They can even cling to a certain set of Christian formulas, and fit them to a Totalist Ideolody. Let them talk about justice, charity, love, and the rest. These words have not stopped sane men from acting very sanely and cleverly in the past.

No, Eichmann was sane. The generals and fighters on both sides, in World War II, the ones who carried out the total destruction of entire cities, these were the sane ones. Those who have invented and developed atomic bombs, thermonuclear bombs, missiles; who have planned the strategy of the next war; who have evaluated the various possiblities of using bacterial and chemical agents; these are not crazy people, they are the sane people. The ones who coolly estimate how many millions of victims can be considered expendable in a nuclear war, I presume they do all right with the Rorschach ink blots too. On the other hand, you will probably find that the pacificists and the ban-the-bomb people are, quite seriously, just as we read in Time, a little crazy.

I am beginning to realize that "sanity" is no longer a value or an end in itself. The "sanity" of modern man is about as useful to him as the huge bulk and muscles of a dinosaur. If he was a little less sane, a little more doubtful, a little more aware of his aburdities and contradictions, perhaps there might be a possibility of his survival. But if he is sane, too sane...perhaps we must say that in a society like ours the worst insanity is to be totally without anxiety, totally "sane."

Thomas Merton, Raids On The Unspeakable, 1966

Mein Katnip

Check it out. Cats that look like Hitler.

The Cute Little Fluff Ball of Fate

Pittsfield, Massachusetts. Mid-winter 1981. I was driving a Chevy flatbed truck for a machine shop. Had just dropped off my load. A plastic injection mold. Huge hunk of mechanical wizardry that gives birth to whatever plastic offspring it was made for. Anything from a detergent bottlecap to a dashboard Jesus. It was butt ass cold and my side windows were still frosted up. The stop light I was waiting for turned green. My left foot was easing up on the clutch to go when I saw the strangest sight. Dancing from right to left, on the horizon of my hood, was a white fluffy ball. I braked. Strange, weird, but kind of delightful. Until it passed the left side of my hood. The cute little dancing ball of fluff was perched atop the knit winter hat of a tiny little girl, no more than six years old, crossing against the light.
Somewhere in this world is a young woman, around 30 or 31. She probably has no idea that guardian angels appear in many forms. I know what hers looks like. Thanks you beautiful fluffy little bastard.

Whit

Electricity had one job. Illuminating the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling in the boss's office. The cash register was mechanical. No plumbing. No heat. A single portable toilet in it's dirt parking lot. It was there before Henry Ford covered the land with the black four wheeled spawn of Satan. In Bernardston Massachusetts. Not far from Bernardston General Store. There it was. Bernardston Grain Company. The massive two story wooden structure next to the train tracks wasn't built for people. It was built to mix grain for cattle, horses, and pigs. I suspect either Rube Goldberg or Salvador Dali had a hand in it's design. The grain mixers were run by a series of belts and pulleys that were in turn run by rope cables set into motion by a water wheel in the river 100 yards distant. Whenever I saw boxcars on the siding I knew we were in for a long day. Unloading 100 pound grain bags. Are we making a dent? Maybe those bags are multiplying in that boxcar just to mock us. Whit smiled. "Keep your back straight or you'll curdle your milk." His name was Mr.Whitaker but everyone called him Whit. It seemed a little disrespectful. I took the coward's way out. I never addressed him by name. He was in his mid 70's. That made no sense. He was hard. He was wiry. He contained more urine and vinegar than a spring foal. He could unload a car full of 100 pound sacks faster than most 20 year olds and used that fact to taunt us. He liked me. He called me "shit-ass". I grew up without a father. A smile of approval from a respected older man was exponentially magnified in importance. Add "shit-ass" and forget about it. Made my day. I was eating lunch in my car on May 21, 1977 the day I got some perspective on Whit's age. I know the date because Paul Harvey's voice on the radio said that it was the 50th anniversary of Charles Lindbergh's landing in Paris. Later that afternoon I asked Whit if he remembered that day. He said "Sure do. That happened on my second wedding anniversary."
It's 28 years later and about that since I've seen Whit and Bernardston Grain Company. Don't know if the building still stands. If Whit does, he's 104, clutching a grain bag about waist high, smile on his face, imploring some shit-ass to keep up. I wouldn't bet against it.

Profit from Prophets

In 1935, in his book "It Can't Happen Here", Sinclair Lewis said "When Fascism comes to America it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying the cross." BINGO! I'm going to keep reading this guy's work. Hopefully somewhere he'll mention the 2007 Kentucky Derby. I'll be rollin' in dough!

Shoichi Yokoi

Between 1971 and '74, half my life was spent aboard the USS Henry Clay, a submarine home ported in Guam. I was thinking of all the fascinating and sometimes surreal things to tell you about my experience when I recalled something way more fascinating that happened while I was there. In January 1972, Shoichi Yokoi came out of the jungle. He was a Japanese soldier who had been living there for 26 years since the end of World War ll. His first words back in Tokyo were"It is with much embarrassment that I return." He remarried that same year and passed away in 1997 at the age of 82. Apologies for my ineptitude creating links. If you go to Wikipedia, there's a good overview of the life of Shoichi Yokoi. More about the submarine some other time.

CHEAP (dessert) MEMORIES

A gastronomical reminiscence. Remember this stuff? My brother and I ate this custard like it was going out of style in 1950's New England. Mom served it because: 1. It was inexpensive, and 2. In the 50's, failure of a housewife to serve dessert was at the very least a misdemeanor.

Ten Best Rock Songs of All Time

I just watched the first episode of Rock Star - "Supernova." Yeah. That's right. Because I'm a reality tv show hog. Anyway, Dilana did a respectable rendition of Lithium except for her freak show dance moves at the end. I think she could kick Tommy Lee's ass.

So I'm inspired to ask- What do you think are the ten best rock songs of all time? We'll have to do one for other genres too.

Here's my list in no particular order:

1. Immigrant Song - Led Zepplin
2. Baba O'Reilly - The Who
3. Vodoo Chile - Jimi Hendrix
4. Have a Cigar - Pink Floyd
5. London Calling - The Clash
6. Smells Like Teen Spirit - Nirvana
7. Satisfaction - The Rolling Stones
8. Paint It Black - The Rolling Stones
9. School's Out - Alice Cooper
10. Heroin - Velvet Underground

Oh, and here's Condy Rice's picks for the ten best musical works of all time. Plus the National Review's top 50 Conservative Rock Songs.

Gone to Hell!

Yes. Going out of town until Sunday. Going to hell!

Mesa actually, but is there really any difference?

Apologies for the light postings of late, still under the weather and under the gun to get my thesis done by September 1. I'll explode if I don't. The alarm is set. Anyway, more soon. You'll be in good hands with the Reverend.

Hope you enjoy this video by Regina Spektor. Check it out here.

The Decider: The Early Years

While The Prez was a student at Yale, he became a member of the secretive Skull and Bones Society. The following blurb is from Wikipedia:
"Skull and Bones is known by many names, including The Order of Death, The Order, Cooperation Star, The Eulogian Club, and Lodge 322. Initiates are most commonly known as Bonesmen, Knights of Eulogia, Boodle boys, and GBdBs (Great Bones (of the) Boodle).
On an initiate's first day in Bones they are assigned a name, which they will be known as for the rest of their life. Names that are regularly used are: Magog, which is assigned to the initiate with the most experience with the opposite sex; Gog, which is assigned to the least sexually experienced; Long Devil, for the tallest; Boaz, for varsity American football captains; and Little Devil for the shortest. Bonesmen have often assumed names of mythological and legendary figures. George W. Bush's Skull and Bones name is thought to be "Temporary". This is because he could not decide upon a name and was therefore given the temporary name. He never took the time to change it to something else."

Ali G vs. Religion

Martha Wainwright

Did you catch Martha Wainwright on Letterman last night? This is from an earlier appearance. Special thanks to Chris Boyd for expanding my muscial horizons in the past month. Cheers!

Shock and Awe

Do Ordain and Establish

George doesn't read, but maybe he'd do with a box set of School House Rock?

Cinnamon Floss Update

Okay a few weeks ago I railed about the decline of quality and the eventual disappearance of cinnamon dental floss. But I held out a tiny strand of hope that maybe, just maybe, this one Target store was an anomaly. But no! No! I went to a different Target today and the cinnamon floss wasn't there. Again, with the phasing out of the cinnamon floss peg. There will be no cinnamon floss at Target in the future.

Lest you think I am the only one who's going crazy looking for the cinnamon floss take gander at this. Note: I prefer waxed.

For the curious or the just plain desperate you can buy it online here and here and here. Stay tuned. This is part of an ongoing investigation. I'm curious to see if drugstores and other corporate type stores have followed Target's lead. Do you think they have it at Wall Drug?

Protect Our President

On your left you'll notice our President writing on Old Glory with a Sharpie. I'm concerned for him. This week, the Senate has scheduled up to four days of debate on a flag burning/desecration amendment. For the love of God! E-mail your local Senator and encourage them to vote against this amendment. Help keep our Commander-in-Chief out of jail. Or not. It's a free country.

Shelter from the Shit Storm

The feeling that you're completely taken care of. Considering the present shit storm, it's harder and harder to find something besides whiskey and pills that do the trick. Well add this. If you like blues music, or even if you don't, get "The Boss of the Blues". Singer Big Joe Turner and pianist Pete Johnson are at the top of their game. You couldn't be in better hands. What are you waiting for? Toss out the pills, turn off CNN, put this baby on, and sit back. Oh, hey. There's a little whiskey left. Might as well not let it go to waste.

This Is Your Wake Up Call

Here's today's gut laugh. Extreme Japanese wake up pranks.

Guess That's Why They Need to Be Posted

Stephen Colbert stumps Congressman Lynn Westmoreland on the Ten Commandments. Brilliant.

The Deadwood Connection

Okay, maybe it's because of E's post and the fact I just got done watching the second season of "Deadwood". I couldn't help thinking of Nixon as Al Swearengen (pictured 3rd from the left) and Bush as E.B.Farnum. (2nd from left) When Swearengen lies to you, you're mad, but still have a healthy respect for his position. When E.B. lies to you, you just feel like an idiot for trusting anything the little weasel had to say.

I'm in the Mood for Dick

Yours truly is feeling nostalgic and squishy inside like on of those diner jelly donuts with the pink icing that look oh-so tempting at 5:30 am when your mind is a little bent. Maybe it's the punishing heat but I'm thinking of 1972 and the Watergate Hearings, my mother snarling about missing her "stories." Still, we watched. We watched obsessively for weeks. Maybe because Mom was wasted on Valium and Dickle. Or maybe she had a thing for Archibald Cox. Did you realize that an estimated 85% of U.S. households watched at least one of the hearings (so much for tearing a country apart). 1972 was the year my political conscience was born. I remember hanging out on the swings with my friend Kim and talking about the election. She was in sixth grade, I was in fifth. We were big supporters of McGovern.

So anyway, it's 2006 now and I'm watching Bush explain his failures to the European press and I find myself missing Dick. Dick Nixon. Yeah. I'm sorry we don't have 'ol Dick Nixon to kick around anymore. I want to see a little more finesse when someone lies to my face, not this guffawing aw-shucks loser frat boy.

I'm Only Asking

In the June issue of Harper's Ben Metcalf poses some interesting questions. For example this juicy number:
Because I am loath to violate whatever fresh new mores the people have agreed upon, or have been told they agree upon, and because I do not care to have my ass kicked repeatedly in a holding cell while I beg to see a lawyer, I almost hesitate to ask the following question. I will ask it, though, out of what used to be called simple human decency: Am I allowed to write that I would like to hunt down George W. Bush, the president of the United States, and kill him with my bare hands?

Another excerpt:
True, George W. Bush is an ignorant, cruel, closed-minded, avaricious, sneaky, irresponsible, thieving, brain-damaged frat boy with a drinking problem and a taste for bloodshed, whose numerous crimes have been abetted by the moral corruption of his party cohort and whose contempt for American military lives alone warrants his impeachment, but what has it ever won us to say so? How has it profited the people for their writers to argue that a wealthy, comfortable citizen deserves a wealthy, comfortable retirement when we all know full well that he has earned confinement and conviction and perhaps even a request for that barbaric death penalty he so loudly supports? What goal, besides an impoverished guarantee of my own personal “freedom,” is served by a refusal to acknowledge that I might easily, and enjoyably, rid us of this man forever with my very hands? [Full article here. Found via Frank's Wild Lunch.]

And file this under "Who's Minding the Fucking Store?" The Washington Post review of Ron Suskind's book The One Percent Doctrine.

Finally, check out David Byrne's consideration of Hitler's Secretary and E.B. White's This Is New York.

HST on Letterman 1988

He discusses Gary Hart, among other things. Letterman pushes the interview at times and that's annnoying because it jars Mr. Thompson's thoughtful, considered rhythm. It's still delightful. And yes, it was taped in a hotel room.

The Woodrose Ballroom

I have my story. You all have yours. The time, place, and band that was your first musical religious experience. It was 1969. I was 17 and living in a rural town in western Massachusetts. The only live rock bands I'd ever seen were my chronological contemporaries performing pale imitations of the songs of the moment at high school dances. Around the same time, two guys from Boston bought an old roller skating rink in a town even smaller than Shelburne Falls, 15 miles down the road in South Deerfield. They called it The Woodrose Ballroom. I walked in there and saw The J Geils Blues Band. (pictured above) They turned on a dime. The Ballroom shook. Sparks flew. Lead singer Peter Wolf had to have springs in his sneakers. He sang and jumped all over that stage like a wolf on Acme Crank in a Chuck Jones cartoon. Magic Dick's harp sliced us all in half. The Woodrose must have had connections because they had some kick ass bands in there including James Cotton, Charlie Musselwhite, and even The Velvet Underground.
Things change. In 1970, I went in the Navy for 4 years, and when I returned The Woodrose was gone and there was an auction house in it's place. Whatever that magic was, I believe it's happening somewhere to some 17 year old, in some small joint right now somewhere in the world. Thanks to J Geils and The Woodrose Ballroom for making it happen to me.

Anna Eshoo Draws the Line At Impeachment

I recently wrote a letter to Anna Eshoo asking her to support impeachment proceedings against President Bush. Here's the feeble response she sent me:

Dear Ms. Spreen, Thank you for contacting me about impeachment. I have heard from many constituents who support impeachment of the President, however, I don't believe it is something to be taken lightly. As a practical matter, the Republican Party controls both the House and the Senate and therefore articles of impeachment against President Bush will go absolutely nowhere. I lived through an impeachment process and it tears the country apart. I believe this President's policies should be and will be impeached at the polls.

Sincerely,
Anna G. Eshoo Member of Congress

Okay. So the gist is this: the Democrats don't have any power and probably won't any power any time soon (ie. forget about the mid-term elections, we are so screwed). Sure, back in 1998 Trent Lott and Joe Lieberman were pushing to have Bill Clinton censured, and the Republicans in Congress thought "hey, we can't let the guy off that easy, he got a blow job for Christsakes." A blow job people. The Republicans wanted to impeach Clinton for getting a blow job. Well, for lying about getting a blow job. In the post 9/11 world, things are different. The President can openly lie to Congress and the Amercian people, and there's not one little old thing we can do about it. It's like President Bush said, "The Constitution is just a goddamned piece of paper." Thank you. Kiss off, Ms. Spreen. Oh, wait, if you guys want Bush out of office so bad, "impeach him" at the polls.

Now Anna, you're just being coy. We've seen how effective "impeaching him" at the polls has been - I mean, this President lost the 2000 election by over 500,000 votes and the 2004 election is also suspect. Maybe it was those groovy voting machines financed by the families of Howard Ahmanson and Nelson Baker Hunt (of the Chalcedon Foundation).

Oh. And in case you haven't noticed. This country is already torn apart by the Iraq War which Congress so generously gave the President a blank check to execute.

Of course, Anna's just towing the line set by Nancy Pelosi who announced that Democrats won't be pursuing impeachment. Mostly, because there's fifteen seats up for grabs in the mid-terms and the dems don't want to bolster Republican fundraising efforts by going after Bush. Lame-ass democrats.

Maybe Codepink has it right. Indict the bastard.

The King of Beers a Fool?

With all the ways we're pissing off the world, sometimes the smaller ways can be overlooked. I drink Bud. I enjoy it. But installing it as the only beer you can drink in a German soccer stadium during The World Cup is akin to inviting me to dance with the Bolshoi Ballet on Russian New Year. On Monday, June 12th, Scott Ostler of the San Francisco Chronicle wrote from Germany:"The Gelsenkirchen soccer stadium has two other names, but to me, it is the Homer Dome, after the patron saint of beer enjoyment, Herr Simpson.

The stadium is the site of two breathtaking marvels of German engineering: the playing pitch and the beer-circulation system.

For World Cup play, the city's 53,000-seat stadium is Arena Aufschalke, because it is home of the Shalke '04 pro team. During regular Bundesliga play, the place reverts to its beer-sponsor name, Veltins-Arena.

The grass is phenomenal, as green and precisely clipped as that of Wimbledon or Augusta National. The stadium is partially roofed, not healthy for grass, but the entire field slides out the back of the stadium on rails, like a 2-acre cookie tin sliding out of the oven, so the grass can photosynthesize to its heart's content.

But here's the coolest part:

There are four gigantic beer vats under the grandstands, each holding and cooling about 13,000 liters of fresh brewski. Snaking from the tanks to the concession-stand taps and luxury suites is a 5-kilometer network of insulated pipes, rushing cold, fresh Veltins beer to the thirsty coal-miner fans.

Alas, World Cup cups here in Gelsenkirchen will not runneth over with sweet Veltins. The system is shut down because the Cup's official beer is Budweiser.

The eighth wonder of the world will not be in operation this month. A moment of silence, please."

Meerkat Manor

Forget watching reality television with real people, now you can watch reality television with meerkats on Animal Planet. Meerkat Manor focuses on a group of meerkats living in the Kalahari Desert. Read more here.

Under the Weather

Sorry to be so light on the postings. Down sick with the stomach flu with my two kids. Hope to back at it soon.

Tater? Tomater?

Cult film? By Angus MacLachlan and Phil Morrison, writer and director of Junebug.

Tater Tomater

Day in the life of a cafeteria worker gone mad.

People Movies with Animal Names

I go to the movies a lot. I'm beginning to think I'm an animated car and the animals in my yard are cute drawings that talk. Two flicks I've seen recently have thankfully snapped me the hell out of it. Yes, I am a people and I have two people movies to prove it. They have names that sound like National Geographic specials so don't get fooled and let em pass you by. See "The Squid and the Whale" and "Junebug". Both are out on DVD. I hate it when our fellow homo sapiens give away the story so you're not hearing anything from me. Except that both are packed with exceptional actors saying the words of exceptional writers. Okay and this. "Junebug" was my favorite. Actor Scott Wilson is always a joy to see and Amy Adams, who I've never seen before but hope to see a lot more of, gives the performance of a lifetime. Gary Hawkins, writing in the magazine Oxford American compares what she's done to DeNiro's Travis Bickle or Sheen and Spacek in "Badlands" All will go on to great work but not surpass that perfect blend of performer and role. Enjoy fellow humans.

Tomorrow is KIP Day

Yep. That's right. June 10 is the 2nd Annual Knit in Public day. More here.

Untalkative Bunny Joins A Knitting Circle


Totally Naked Hands Knitting


University of Rhode Island Knitting Club Homage to Tarantino

The Road To Guantanamo

MPAA "Approved"

Uncensored

Official website here.

...I Need Answers To A Couple Of Questions by David Aaronovitch of The Times. Read more here and here.

Read about the annual Human Rights Watch International Film Festival

Speech by Irene Khan, Amnesty International Report 2005

In 2004, far from any sign of principled leadership, we saw a new and dangerous agenda in the making, rewriting the rules of human rights, discrediting the institutions of international cooperation and usurping the language of justice and freedom to promote policies that create fear and insecurity.

The US is leading this agenda, with the UK, European states, Australia and other states following.

Under this agenda, accountability is being set aside in favour of impunity; a prime example being the refusal of the US Administration or US Congress to conduct a full and independent investigation of the use of torture and ill treatment by US officials, despite the public outrage over Abu Ghraib and despite the evidence, collected by AI and other, of similar practices in Bagram, Guantanamo and other detention centres under US control.

Another example was the attempt by the UK – thankfully unsuccessfully – (in the Baha Moussa case) to argue that its soldiers in Iraq are not bound by human rights law (notwithstanding Mr. Blair’s claim that they are there to save the Iraqi population from Saddam’s abuses - but obviously not from British ones)

The pick and choose approach to international law is being replaced by a "erode where you can, select if you must and subvert where you will" approach.

Check out the Price of Oil.

A Stalker Comes in for Tea

OOOH! The light here hurts my eyes. First off, hi. I'm the Reverend. I've been a daily fan of Elizabeth's entries and this here Piefurcation blog for quite some time now. It's entertaining and from what I can tell, a sight more accurate and informative than anything you'll find on Fox. I was content to sit back here in the dark and post the occasional snide comment. Then it happened. Elizabeth asked me if I'd like to contribute. (pause) I felt like a stalker whose victim suddenly turned, walked right up to him, and asked him in for tea. There's been a distinct power shift and I'm very uneasy. But the tea is delicious. I think I'll drop in once in a while. And one more thing. You out there. Yeah... You. And you too. I encourage you to post a comment now and then. The more the merrier. Hey! I'm a stalker fer chrissakes. If I can come out of the shadows, so can you.

Nothing Left To Lose Club

Michael Berg. American. Michael speaks out against the air-raid that killed Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. Michael's son, Nick, was reportedly beheaded by al-Zarqawi.

The Rev writes the following:
I'm not worthy to stand next to this guy's dirty clothes hamper. Out of this unspeakable personal tragedy comes the clearest voice of reason that cuts through all this bullshit. And a pox on the news weasels shoving microphones in his face at this time, no doubt hoping for a visceral blood lust reaction. Humans can aspire to it, but how can you get any deeper than this guy? I can't. I want to kick some serious news weasel butt.

Left Behind: The Video Game

Gee, nothing says Old Testament like a video game that combines killing with the word of God. If you're a good little Reconstructionist maybe Santa will leave one in your stocking. Oh, wait. If we restore old testament law does that mean we lose Christmas?

Check out "Jesus Loves A Machine Gun" for more info on the game.

More on Reconstructionists. Here, and here on their own site. Here, here, and here for other views.

Point of clarification: I know the Left Behind crowd are premillenialists and that Reconstructionists are post-millenialists. My own twisted sense of humor made me go for the eschatological smash-up.

Thanks to the Rev for this morning's material.

Cintra Wilson, Stephen Colbert & Voldemort

Verizon, AT & T, et al and their participation in the NSA wiretapping program. Ever wonder what's in it for them? Cintra Wilson has a bead on that and then some. [The Dregulator] Thankfully online at long last! Here's the NewStandard article she mentions. Love the headline: Verizon Refuses to come Clean about Wiretapping. Can you hear me now?

Stephen Colbert's commencement address to the 2006 graduates of Knox College. [Found on TV tattle.com] Watch truncated version. Read full text.

Groovy t-shirts from goats.

Planned Obsolescence

Where is the cinnamon dental floss? Has it come to this? Honestly, I've had to live with my share of disappointment (I'm going to make a list), so it's the little things that get me by (list 2). I've managed okay since they took Quisp off the market for the second time in my life (I first swallowed that bitter pill when I was six and if you know me, it probably explains a lot). How I manage without my "Quispy, quunchy, quazy energy cereal" I'll never know, but I do. I do. Actually, I've just found that you can buy Quisp online here. Egads! I'm getting my credit card now! Be back in a flash.

(pause)

Yep. Very few things are worth lifetime devotion, but Quisp, it's right up there. Buy some yourself and you'll see, rather you'll taste, true cereal goodness. I wouldn't steer you wrong. Now where were we? Right. There's been a definite decline in the quality and quantity of cinnamon floss. It's like year after year they're cutting back on the flavor. If you have a box of cinnamon floss do a taste comparison with mint floss and you'll see. Skimping on the cinnamon.

It used to be that I could walk into Target and the cinnamon floss would be there ready for the purchasing. I could buy a box at a time. Not so anymore. It's gotten so desperate in the past three years that I've taken to hoarding the cinnamon floss - buying five, six boxes at a time. I thought over-purchasing would indicate that there's a steady, dependable market for it, but no. I went to Target the other day and there was no cinnamon floss! They had even removed the little peg/label thingies indicating to me that there would be no more cinnamon floss. Target has taken a stand and declared there are only two kinds of people in the world - Mint and flavorless flossers. Lots of textures though. Easy glide, waxed, tape, it's like floss has become aero-dynamic. People are losing valuable moments of their lives because their floss is creating drag. Floss makers aren't just in the business of preventing gingivitis, they're also giving us a little bit of our lives back every day in every way.

Well, I don't want it. I prefer to live on the edge, grab life by the balls and cut my life short with cinnamon floss. There are worse ways to go.

Diet Coke & Mentos Experiments

You gotta see this! And we gotta try it at home...perfect the technique over the coming months.

It will be a fine addition to our Alka Seltzer rockets from last summer.

Pancake Mountain

Hip kid's show on DCTV Public Access. More here and here. Or watch.

Rolling Stones & Eric Clapton: Atlantic City, NJ December 19, 1989

Sometimes it's a rooster, sometimes it's a peacock. If you see it, send it home.



Thank you, YouTube.