Wednesday, November 23, 2005


Okay, I know I am supposed to be sharing photos of our trip across country, or perhaps some insight on the recent removal of my gall bladder, but this article caught my eye and so I'm going with it.

During my stint at the college, I watched - and participated in - wasting a shitload of paper. Sure we placed it in a recycling bin, but c'mon now. We all know that the paper in the blue bin goes to the same place as the paper in a garbage can - it's called a landfill. Maybe I'm wrong, but I doubt it. If all this paper was really being recycled, then everything we bought would say "Made from recycled paper." How many times have you seen that written on your paper bags at the grocery store, or on the magazine you purchased at the newsstand? Not that often.

The straightdope has a great article on how paper is created, a topic I have always been curious about. But what I found especially interesting was some of the facts about just how many trees go into making the same paper that we all use on a daily basis.

Some numbers:

1 ton of uncoated virgin (non-recycled) printing and office paper uses 24 trees
1 ton of 100% virgin (non-recycled) newsprint uses 12 trees
A pallet of copier paper (20-lb. sheet weight, or 20#) contains 40 cartons and weighs 1 ton. Therefore:
1 carton (10 reams) of 100% virgin copier paper uses 0.6 trees
1 tree makes 16.67 reams of copy paper or 8,333.3 sheets
1 ream (500 sheets) uses 6% of a tree (and those add up quickly!)
1 ton of coated, higher-end virgin magazine paper (used for magazines like National Geographic and many others) uses a little more than 15 trees (15.36)
1 ton of coated, lower-end virgin magazine paper (used for newsmagazines and most catalogs) uses nearly 8 trees (7.68)

In Tacoma, WA the paper mills in town produce this extremely pungent odor that permeates the entire city. It has been dubbed "The Aroma of Tacoma." The Straightdope gets to the bottom of that as well:

The smell is only partially a result of the sulfur compounds used in the kraft process; mostly, it's a result of the cooking out of the lignins and sugars in the wood. Remember too that trees contain some natural sulfur compounds, which are liberated during the pulping process. The smell is sickly sweet, reminiscent of what I encounter at large grain processors. The good thing is that, though annoying, it's not very hazardous. After a week at a plant you stop noticing it partially because your hair, clothes, and hotel room take on the same smell.

So there you have it. This was both informative and also a way for me to procrastinate from doing any actual work.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Booked. Ha! : )

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

No Hankies, Just a Hammer

There was another person running past my house with a hammer Saturday night, the same stretch as before. This time, it was me. Several strides in I began to laugh my ass off as I realized that there could be endless explanations for someone running down the street with a hammer. Mine is as follows.

Kubrickscube needed a to borrow a hammer. I left my house after dark, hammer in hand, and it was so cold that I began running to my truck a couple blocks away. I must not have looked as suspicious as the man last month, because I was not stopped at gunpoint by 3 cops.

I arrive at Kubrick’s place, a little uneasy as I approach the door with the hammer. He comes out & informs me that we can’t go in because the place reeks of turpentine. We must go to the bar while his apartment airs out.

We start walking down the street, hammer still in hand, when we realize that we can’t go into the bar with a hammer. At least not on a Saturday night. I try to stuff it into my magic bag that holds endless tricks, but the head of the hammer still sticks out of the top. What are we to do? We could give it to our bartender Arthur to hold behind the bar, but we had already used that favor with a mysterious bag earlier in the week. It must go down Kubrick’s pants. There it stayed for the remainder of the evening, only knocking him in the balls once or twice. In the end he decided he’d like to wear a hammer down his pants more often.

I don't remember leaving the bar, but I'm pretty sure the hammer got back to Kubrick's safely.

Sunday, September 25, 2005


I love music. I really do. Its a major part of every one of my days. I also love talk radio and live sports and discussions about farm machinery and prison stories so I think I may be more of a culture addict then anything, but music takes the cake for me. So as I scavenge the radio dial for that certain song I'm in the mood for I often find myself checking the predominantly alternative 20-35 demographic channel. In my town there's two of them and there's one thing that ties these two channels together. One seemingly inoperable cancer to which they both suffer from but blindly keep contributing to its growth like a smoker puffing more and more cigarettes...Continuing to play songs from Pearl Jam's Ten album adnauseum. I will admit I did like this band at one time in my life. Many good memories with their songs in the background. But its been about 12 years or so since these songs first came on the scene, and by this point my exposure level to Evenflow has caused me to have such vitriol towards it that when I hear it its like nails on the chalkboard to me. Its time to put that album to rest because both of these so called radio program manager guys here in my town are obviously the wrong guys for the job. I don't like to judge people but its obvious these guys probably have kissed a girl only once before and by the way it timing happened to coincide with Ten's release in the early nineties. To quote Chris Rock (cleaned up) "The last time they got "any" is when "any" had them".

On the music theme I finally fell victim to Apple's marketing brainwashing and purchased an iPod. Within a week I went through several phases of emotion from the purchase:
Day 1 - Excitability with the purchase, happy
Day 2 - The piece of shit won't load on my computer
Day 3 - Now the piece of shit won't play.
Day 3 1/2 - The piece of shit is going back. Dejected. Suffering from buyers guilt.
Day 4 - Wow, this is actually pretty neat. Sounds good
Day 5 - Recommending friends and several random senior citizens purchase an iPod because "it's easy to load and a snap to use"

I was really happy to read that several new books are on the way from Hunter S. Thompson's estate. The books include all original material that he had been collecting and writing over the years including a collection of letters and faxes to his bureau chief at Rollingstone during the final pullout of the Vietnam war. I thought about it for a while and i realized that he's really the only writer I've ever read that captured my attention from book to book and certainly the only writer in which I can say that I've read most if not all of his work. His stream of consciousness was like a tight rope walker tiptoeing high above the mainstream while the rest of us looked up every once in a while and peered in amazement and enjoyment at his angles on our everyday life. Looking forward to seeing Rum Diaries on the big screen and more new material from this great American writer.

Friday, September 23, 2005


So I'm moving back to NYC. Four weeks to go. Came to the decision suddenly one day while drinking, which is never a wise time to make life-altering choices. Nevertheless, it's time. I spent the last two years on the road. Living in random cities. Working a myriad of jobs from construction worker, to painter, to a barista, on a demolition crew, as an attendant at a alternative medicine clinic, a mover at a moving company, and finally at my current job as an accountant. I had no skills to warrant me performing any of these jobs. I lied and read books to keep up and I left everyone of them to glowing praise. During these two years, I've also managed to write four screenplays, which I am quite proud of as well. So I feel invincible. Like I can tackle the world. Then one day, while drunk, I make the realization, an epiphany, if you will, that Seattle is too small for me, and I have to go back to where I belong.

Strange days, indeed.

So the postings will be sparse for a bit but don't fret. The stories, like the city, will grow bigger, and the adventures more grand. I figured out what life was about recently. It's the pursuit of happiness. Some find it in love, others in drugs, or money, or even materialism. I myself find it in the story, and I hope to continue to share them with you over the years and I hope you continue to enjoy them.

So here we go...


Monday, September 19, 2005

Dude, I'm so Frikkin' Broke

I want to know if Skull & Bones is real. And I'm interested to know what is talked about at Masonic temples. Who is their main man? Do you have to have some sort of Mayflower connection to be a part of this stuff? What if my grandmother's great grandfather was a peasant stowaway on a ship from France to Canada? Is that going to work against me?
I'm totally annoyed by privileged people. Please feel free to call bullshit on me. I mean, I'm not starving and living in New Jersey or anything. I have two jobs (two jobs!). I have an apartment. I even have a car, which, I'll have you know, runs on 100% biodiesel. I'm talking about the George W.Bush's of the world. The Kennedy's. Or worse...The CHILDREN of the Kennedy's and Bush's.
Or even, on a smaller scale financially, but (almost) equally annoying... people like my friend and coworker, we'll call her Deborah, whose parents not only pay for her full college tuition(at the school I want to go to, but they send her a small stipend to live on, which would be fine if she wasn't totally blowing off classes and flunking final exams, and if she didn't use her part time salary to buy Rolexes and diamond earrings. Or the girl I know who just quit her job and went to Argentina for 4 months, you know, on a whim...because when you have a trust fund, you can also have whims.
I don't know what it is, but just about NOTHING irritates me more than when I hear about people who have never worked hard in their lives getting something for nothing, again and again and again, and then not even appreciating it.
It's gotten my panties so bundled up that I've started formulating rich people conspiracy theories.
Por ejemplo, in elementary school, I swear they took the kids whose parents were doctors and lawyers into a secret room with a one way mirror looking through at me and my peeps. You know us. Our parents were telephone workers and cleaning ladies. We played innocently in the sandbox or with the Lincoln logs while the upper crust of the Joseph G. Pyne Elementary School sat ungratefully absorbing important life lessons during the "How to make sure your life is better than THOSE losers" seminar, which included tips like "How to play first string football at Yale while dating the head cheerleader and never studying", or "Getting an interview at the best companies on the planet", and the very popular "10 most commonly used secret handshakes..."

It is true that there's something to be said for working hard. That's what people keep telling me, anyway...Supposedly, according to these goody two shoes that I've mentioned this to, there's something called "value" added to everything you buy when you've worked really, really hard to get it. The sad thing about that is that I don't care. I don't care if I "appreciate" my material possessions more than Paris Hilton does. I still want her money. That's something I'd appreciate. I'd be very grateful if just by saying "That's hot" in a totally monotone voice while gesturing toward an old man who forgot to put in his dentures, I got paid. I wish that by saying "you're fired" with a chihuahua strapped atop my sagging pinkish face, that I could afford to build big big ugly hotels.

I wouldn't actually build big hotels, but I could if I wanted, because you're not the boss of me.

There's the old saying that 'You have to spend money to make money' and frankly that's just irritating. That's why all the people that have money will always have money. And I, in turn, will hate them. It's not just the money having thing that makes me hate them. It's the relationship that they have with money. It's so laissez faire. No worries. No inner calculations on how much you can spend if you want to make your car payment, pay rent, credit cards, electric bill AND eat food this month. How do they do it?
When I moved to Seattle I was jobless. I left Boston with big ideas about how I was going to get the hell out of the watch business,and start a fresh life on another coast. After six months temping, getting fired, and generally starving in the NON-watch business, I ended up working for yet another watch dealer at a $3/hour pay cut. How irritating is that? I'm planning another move now, and I'm mortified at the prospect of starving again. If my dad was more connected, would he call in a favor for me and get me a job in NYC? Would I even want a job he'd choose for me?
I guess I wouldn't. It's nice not to be stuck with what is dealt to you. It's better that when I bought my car I felt completely satisfied in the make, model, color, and price. And I am paying for it. Myself. Dad never offered, but it is actually kind of a good feeling to know that I wouldn't need his help if he offered. I can do it myself. At the risk of sounding all 12-steppy and crap, I'm smart enough to take care of my shit on my own. Who wants to owe all the good stuff you have accomplished to a great set of tits, or to your Dad's check book? Probably a lot of people, but since it's not an option for me, I'm glad I'm clever enough to handle it on my own.
Aw, happy ending. How nice.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

Like Mother Like Son


"And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this — this is working very well for them," she said.

Monday, September 12, 2005




More to come in a couple of days.

(photos by Kubrickscube)

Friday, September 09, 2005


No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun -- for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax -- This won't hurt.

From Rolling Stone magazine. Check out the great article written by biographer, Douglas Brinkley.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

The night before Iggy

8:30 PM
Insanegrl & I arrive at the People’s Pub, order drinks & food. Smoke while waiting for Kubrickscube.

9:00 PM
Kubrick & Austin show up. Introductions are made, drinking continues. I start to tell a story & Kubrick gets up & walks out on his CELL PHONE as I’m about to deliver the punch-line. I finish the story for the remaining listeners & refuse to tell Kubrickscube what happened when he gets back. He’ll have to check the blog tomorrow.

It’s still pretty early in the night, but Kubrick manages to pull a move that nearly takes out a waiter & his tray. Laughter ensues.

9:30 PM
Kubrick leaves to get drum. Small talk is made. Thank god for Insanegrl, I couldn’t have held my own for that long. Not yet drunk enough to talk to someone I’ve known for an hour.

9:45 PM
Kubrick returns and begins an hour and a half long debate (mostly with himself) about meeting Claire. She called him while on his walk, and he has told this girl that he is waiting for a bus in Ballard and will be on Capitol Hill in 15 minutes. She says she’ll wait for him before going out to the show. Entertaining as it is, we all know that he’s not going to meet her.

During this time, each person at the table is told by Kubrickscube that he hates them. Repeatedly.

10:15 PM
Kubrickscube calls Claire, or she calls him. Either way, he tells her that the bus won’t be there for an hour and she should head to the show without him. He’ll meet her there. She agrees.

The debate continues endlessly.

11:30 PM
I finally call an end to the conversation, we pay our check & head over to the Sunset Tavern. Austin disappears into the night.

11:40 PM
Insanegrl and I walk around the corner to smoke before the show. We are met by two strangers that smoke with us, and introduce themselves with mythological names. We are not clever enough to come up with our own fake names on such short notice, so he calls us Jesabelle & Haara.

As people get out of their cars & walk by he says just loud enough, "I can't believe the A-Frames cancelled!" They fall for it.

12:00 AM
The A-Frames take stage & Kubrickscube proceeds to comment about how he wants to kill himself. I can no longer stand upright, so we take a seat in the back where it is easier to talk shit to each other.

12:45 AM
We are drunk & need a cab. Kubrickscube tells us he’s taking us to the Smoke Shop to find the drunkest cabbie around to drive us home. Insanegrl & I blindly follow.

Enter the Smoke Shop & order drinks. Except me, I’ll have water. Kubrickscube asks us why we’re there, and we remind him that he’s supposed to find us a drunken cabbie. He survey’s the bar and states that clearly his plan is not working.

1:00 AM
Kubrickscube spots someone across the bar. He walks all the way around, right up next to the guy, looks straight at his face and walks back to us. He thought he knew the guy but it wasn’t him.

1:01:50 AM
Kubrick walks back to the man, realizing now that it is his long lost Fred, and invites Insanegrl & myself to join them. I squeeze between Kubrickscube & Fred and listen to their stories. I try to spell Fred in sign language, as he has informed me that he’s taking a class in the fall. I fail at this because I can’t remember the fucking letter F. (Drives me crazy all night- had to go home & look it up.)

1:15 AM
Insanegrl has made good friends with some other old man at the bar, who Kubrickscube insists is pure evil.

By this time Kubrick has told Fred that he hates him. He probably reminded me, too. Fred has told me that he’ll respect me more when I decide whether I’m a bitch or not. Kind of a bitch doesn’t sit right with him. I don’t buckle, and maintain that I am, in fact, kind of a bitch.

Fred also tells me he’d like to watch my girlfriend and I do it. So fucking typical. I can see where the man-hating dykes get their fuel.

1:45 AM
Last call. The bartender calls us a cab.

2:00 AM (AKA The Best Cab Ride Ever!)
We pile into the cab, Kubrickscube asks the driver to go slow and as we pass his friends on the street he leans across Insanegrl & myself to hang his head out the window and scream, “I’m gonna fuck you with a broomstick next time I see you!” The cab stops at the light & the guys he screamed at come running towards the car. The cabbie peals out and comments that he likes Kubrickscube.

2:03 AM
Kubrickscube tries to roll a cigarette, but is too drunk. Insanegrl says she doesn’t think we can smoke in the cab anyway. Kubrick confronts the cabbie and discovers this to be fact.

The rest of the cab ride, he argues with the cabbie, drawing some connection between Prince & smoking that is a little fuzzy to me. Something along the lines of if he is gonna force us to listen to Prince, he’d better let us smoke. The cabbie changes it to jazz, and this enrages Kubrickscube even further. There is a long diatribe about smoking in public places. Then the cabbie says, “You should’ve grown up in NY!” We are all shocked and confused by this bold statement. Kubrickscube says, “I’m sitting back & not saying another word.” He sits back and is silent for about 45 seconds.

The smoking argument is reborn and the cabbie informs Kubrickscube that Insanegrl & I should be encouraging him to be a stand up comic. We tell the cabbie that we haven’t told this to Kubrick because we don’t want him to succeed. (Or was this after you got out? I don’t remember. Regardless, you should know that it was said. Actually, I think I said it. No reason to drag Insanegrl down with me!)

2:15 AM
As we close in on Capitol Hill, Kubrickscube informs the cabbie that he hates him. But he is going to give him a tip that will put his kids through college. Then he reaches across me to begin hugging the cabbie & his seat, telling him that he loves him. More promises of the biggest fucking tip ever are made. Repeatedly.

2:20 AM
As we drive up to Kubrick’s apartment, he pulls a mess out of his wallet consisting of about 15 receipts, several credit cards, license, etc. “How am I gonna pay for this?”

Fucking Kubrick. The cabbie notes that this is a trick that men pull on unsuspecting ladies like ourselves and Kubrick panics a little. For some reason he hands me one of the many receipts and promises he’ll pay us back if we cover this & give the guy a fat tip. I hand back the receipt & assure him it will be taken care of.

Kubrick stands at the front passenger window telling the cabbie he loves him as we pull away from the curb.

2:25 AM

Heading to our house, the cabbie once again comments that Kubrick should be a stand up comic. We inform him that he’s a writer and this seems to make him feel better.

2:28 AM

Pull up to our house & pay the bill. Insanegrl leaves $30 on a $21.50 cab ride. As we walk up to the house we tell ourselves that his kids will have to settle for community college, thanks to Kubrickscube.


I was going to write about the greatest story ever told, but that's going to be put on hold for a while. I realize now my stupidity during that brief moment in time and the idea of writing it all down leaves me unsettled and extremely irate.

So instead, we are going to start at a BBQ. One thrown by Bekalekah. She picked me up at about three in the afternoon. I had slept in. The first time in a while. In my old age, I rarely sleep, let alone till three. But the night before, I smoked pot for the first time in quite a bit, and it put me in this paralyzed catatonic state that I am still recovering from. Jesus, what the fuck is in this NW weed, I keep asking myself, and how does anyone here function? But they do. Only a little bit more slowly than the folks on the east coast. Everyone here seems to be in a constant state of bliss. They don't eat meat and they don't believe in war and they love everybody...

and so on and so on...

It's a liberal paradise, and it slowly makes me consider being a moderate.

At the party, I was continually accosted by one of Beck's roommates - Charlie. He somehow felt that I was the guy he could berate. Perhaps it was the glasses. I don't know. All I do know is he got cocky and I had to put him in his place. Little did fuckhead realize, but I am invincible. I proved this to him by downing four shots of Jagermeister in the span of five minutes. He did as well, and as his eyes grew droopy mine grew larger. There you are asshole. Revel in your weakness. I just ruined you. Talk shit no more.

I left the party and headed for the space needle. Bumbershoot was taking place. A four day carnival of shit acts and people paying out of their asses to watch them.

I left Bekalekahs for one reason: Iggy Pop. The man. The legend. The heroin junkie who to this day inspires me to write and play music and all the rest. Velvet Goldmine tells a great Iggy Story, but there is so much more.

Nevertheless, there I was, paying $31 to see him. I went for Iggy, but I also went to see Claire. She's a hipster chick that I know and have somehow befriended. We have great conversation and, at times, I actually find myself pining for it. Perhaps it's the intelligence in her words, or the sarcasm that I so sorely miss. Once again, I don't know, but there I am calling her and talking for hours. Wasting my minutes with no concern for how I am to pay the exorbitant bill that is to come.

So I am there and there is Iggy. His pants hung low, running across the stage, barreling back and forth in this mad-dance that makes you scream and shout for no other reason than the fact that you are watching a legend. The band was in top form. Ron Asheton kicked ass. It was a cavalcade of Rock and roll. A good time, indeed. Claire gave me a VIP card and we sat up in the bleachers along with her sister. I had met the sister a few weeks back. Her name was Sally. She looked nothing like Claire but I knew they were related because she was pure evil as well.

Nevertheless, the show ends, and Claire and I head to a bar called the "Cha Cha."

I've been there once before. Here's a bit from my journal pertaining to the last visit and the night in general:

Been babysitting three people from Portland. They're waxy and filled with cellophane. Drank a jug of Jack with one of them. He resembles a fire pole in a firehouse. Slide down him and go rescue a cat from a tree. Ended up taking another to a bar last night so he could catch up with a Vietnamese woman he met prior in the evening. The bar was filled with people dressed like clowns. At least fifty in all. Normal clothing and painted faces. Some with wigs. I left earth for about fifteen minutes, entering another dimension encompassed by the decadent and depraved who prefer Ronald McDonald to the colonial. We headed back to the chicks apartment. It was in an old warehouse. The apartment itself was the size of a small school for the learning impaired. Large and cavernous. Rooms built high into the ceiling with staircases trickling down like stalactite. Eamon went to some corner with the Viet. I ate fried chicken with her roommate. Read fifteen pages from a novel. Then I left. Locked the door behind me. The hallway was filled with smoke. No visibility. Couldn't get back into the cave, and I didn't want to knock and ruin the surprise for them. Let them find out the hard way, I thought to myself. Pulled my shirt up over my nose and plowed forward into the white darkness. It seemed like forever till the clouds dissipated. Came upon four punk rock kids sitting on the ground smoking cigarettes.
"What the fuck happened here?" I asked in regard to the smoke.
"Someone let off the fire extinguisher." one replied with mild glee.
Left the building. Left capital Hill. Came home a drank with this kid John until about five in the morning.

And so on and so on...

The Cha Cha is crowded. We take a seat in the corner. Red ambient light makes the place feel hot. Claire and I talk as I drink whisky. It's late. Work is right around the corner but I'm not thinking about it. Sally shows up and sits down alongside Claire. We all start to chat. I tell stories. Countless stories. It's all I have in this world and I tell them to anyone who will listen.

"So I get a call," I begin. "This guy, Bruce, he picks up seven pounds of weed and then goes missing. They know he's in Boca Raton but not sure where. I get this call and they're saying to me 'Kubrick, we need you to find this kid, and we need you to get back the weed. Now listen, we want you to do whatever it takes.'"
The girls stare at me. I lean in.
"They wanted me to kill the guy, you see, but I wasn't going to do it. I liked Bruce. He was like a brother to me. So I travel down to Boca and I know immediately where he is and so I head there. I get out of the car and place a tire iron in the back of my pants. I knock on the front door and this kid, Jeff Abrahms answers. He has the chain on the door so it only opens about three inches. 'Jeff,' I say. 'Open this door now or I'll kill you and everyone in this apartment.' He does just that and I enter."
The girls are following my every word.
"I walk into this room and there is Bruce. He is lying in the bed with the blanket up to his neck. 'I know why you're here, Cube. You came to kill me. So just get it over with already.' I look down at him and can't do nothing but laugh at the drama. 'No, Bruce, I ain't here to kill you. I just came for the stuff.' He motions to the edge of the bed. I find seven pounds sitting in a box. I take the box and leave without saying a word."

It's late. Claire has to leave. I stay with Sally and the stories continue into the early morning. We are drunk. I lean over to kiss her and she shies away. I try again. We kiss, and then I am feeling awkward. The bar closes and she drives me home. I don't remember saying anything, but something must have been said.

Claire will never call me again. Sally is just a memory. The Cha Cha seems to get me in trouble and Iggy goes on screaming again and again in my head. This is my funhouse. Tickets available 24 hours a day.

Fired up

Katrina’s devastation to the gulf coast has left me blogless. I always try to pepper all my entries with tales of absurdity in which I encounter residing in the goldmine of ludicrousness, South Florida. However this immeasurable tragedy has left me humorless and tremendously pissed off. Pushing all political lines aside, only words parallel to repulsively deplorable and neglectful can accurately describe the United States government’s response to this well foreseen tragedy. The United States has failed their people on such a colossal scale that for the first time in my life I have been humiliated and mortified by my government. Without doubt, Katrina’s unbelievable fierce winds and torrential downpours killed thousands but many of those who are now deceased bravely survived Katrina but succumbed to the lack of food, medicine, water and/or shelter that was desperately needed immediately following the storm. Never in my wildest dreams did I think this could happen in America, especially considering that hurricanes are one of the few natural disasters that can be foreseen in advance. Witnessing the event makes me particularly sad. Witnessing the unbelievable negligent response makes me furious.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Hankies & Hammers

Leaving our Bat Cave on Friday night, my girlfriend Renee and I walk down our Raiders of the Lost Ark stairs to the street, only to see a shirtless man running by with a red bandana wrapped around his left hand and a hammer in his right. We pause, staring back and forth in awe between the man and our street of cars, reflecting upon the constant break-ins that occur on our street. Renee's car was broken into twice in one month, and there's shattered glass up and down the road everyday.

The man was running south, so we hopped into the car and drove north on our street just past the last parked car, got out and walked back to our house surveying each window. I was sure that Renee would get her redemption, although she'd have to fight her way back up the stairs through the spider webs & booby traps to grab the machete and battle axe before chopping off both his hands.... No broken windows. WTF?!

We get back in the car heading south and there's no sign of the man. We take care of some business and return home within the hour. When we turn down our street, there are three cop cars surrounding the man several blocks from our house. We park and decide that we cannot return to our Bat Cave for the night without knowing what happened. As we walk toward the cop cars one of them drives in our direction us and pulls over a hundred feet ahead. Perfect opportunity for questions, without the fear of the psycho hammer-wielding running man that we made eye contact with seeing us talking to the cops.

re-bekah-nee: "Excuse me, can you tell us what is going on with that man? We saw him run by our house with a hammer earlier."

cop: "Well, he was out on a run and found a hammer. He was bringing it home to put in his trunk."

re-bekah-nee: Look of sheer disbelief.

cop: "Oh, he was quite understanding. Three cop cars surrounded him and came at him at gunpoint, but he's a good guy. Just out on a run and found a hammer, and someone called the cops on him."

re-bekah-nee: Continued disbelief.

As we walked away from the cop car, her K-9 nearly lurched out of the backseat window and ripped out our jugulars, but was calmed with a quick "Hush" from the cop. We left feeling good that we did our part in checking the cars for break-ins and the neighbors did their part calling the cops, but a little uneased that the story of a man running down the street with a bandana on one hand and a hammer in the other can be explained away so simply.

Saturday, September 03, 2005


For most men, although they may not admit, the person who they routinely see to cut their hair is equivalent in importance to a doctor or dentist. If you’ve ever changed insurances or had your dentist move or close up shop on you there’s a feeling of loss, a void of sorts in your life. What am I to do? What if there isn’t one other dentist out there who considers my intolerance for pain? My teeth will simply rot out of my mouth before I sit in another dentist chair.

So is the plight of a man when his hairdresser is no longer available to him. I’ve had it happen a few times in my life and it never, ever plays out well. My experience is that if you lose your hairdresser you will walk around with a haircut that resembles a mix between Vanilla Ice circa 1990 and Moe the stooge for a few months. And when you make the decision to try someone else it’s simply a roll of the dice. You may get a pro, an artist whom you will now call your own, but more likely you will get an angry individual who doesn’t care about you or this shitty job. You knew you were in trouble when you overheard her asking another employee what the best shampoo is to use in prison to avoid bug infestation because her boyfriend sure does have a nasty itch. But you have to give a few hairdressers a shot because hey, it’s not like you can audition them or look them up on a consumer internet site although I would pay dearly for a service like that. No, desperation soon sets in and you sit in that chair like a good patron and hope for the best.

“Hi I’d like to get a #1 on the sides and shorten the top a bit and ….”

After getting a bad haircut you hang your head in shame wearing your new hair style like a scarlet letter. Everyone can see that one side of your head resembles a bass line design while the other side suggests you may be out in public without your normal supervision. The Hellen Keller hairstylist jokes are soon to come from your friends and you notice your significant other is examining you when she thinks you’re not looking, surveying the damage for herself while telling you it ‘alright’.

In the end you may find yourself trying to ‘fix’ the haircut yourself. Not good. Standing in front of the mirror with a pair of sheers or your dog’s electric clippers will always make a bad situation worse. Take your lumps and move on to the next $10 haircut place in a month.


First of all, I must also apologize to Mr. Cube who has also been pressing me to make postings. I did not plan on the one below to be my first, I planned on doing a formal welcome note and then jump in. The events that have been unfolding on the gulf coast have disgusted me so, that my outrage has now found a vent here on this blog. Living in Germany and now (for the time being) working in Ireland I really have no one to talk to about it. The damm Euro trash are always bashing the States (since Bush took over) and I refuse to discuss politics or the current state of the union, as my "friends" seem to use it to stick me with it. Anyhow, I hope to put more entries here in the weeks to come.

P.S. If any of you are Irish, please let me know, as I have a lot of venting on your people and I hope not to insult you too much.. Even if it is well deserved ;)

It's the Governments' Fault

The prospect of what happened in New Orleans has been common knowledge in scientific and emergency preparedness circles (even internationally) for many years, as the article below relates in part. That's why all the news media were running round the clock from Saturday on with on-the-button reports of the looming catastrophe. That everyone in New Orleans was not evacuated by Monday is exclusively the fault of the stuck-in-the-mud mayor of New Orleans, the ditso governor of Louisiana, and the double-ditso president of the USA, and all of their combined "brain trust s" -- a misnomer if ever there was one. The only government agency that did its job right was the National Hurricane Center, which projected with extraordinary accuracy the location, wind strength, and storm surge of the hurricane. It's a shame the mayor, the governor, and the president didn't pay attention. Bush, at least, had an excuse -- he was vacationing on the ranch. What were the others doing?

We had the manpower, the transportation, and the housing -- all available. All that was required were three basic government mobilizations: (1) Call up the remaining National Guard in the lower 48 states, and head them off to New Orleans -- within 36 hours, tens of thousand of Guardsmen could have been on duty to implement the evacuation. (2) Call in the several thousand county school buses all over Louisiana, and man each one with a National Guardsman or two riding shotgun with bullhorns to call out the poor, transportationless citizens of New Orleans to the ready transportation. (3) Take the people to any of dozens of military bases all over the southeastern US, all stocked with barracks, facilities, and canteens. Every one of these three things is a government operation and needed only a non-brain-dead lead er to say Make It So. Unfortunately, there is a shortage of these-type people in this country.

Even if none of this happened in the 48 hours before the storm hit, it still could have happened in the first 48 hours after it hit. The governmental leader hence had two shots at the problem, from point-blank range, and they missed them both!

For this we re-elected Bush? He has now seen to the deaths of as many New Orleans residents as of U.S. soldiers in Iraq. Ah, Iraq. At least we still have oil for gasoline, right?



I just came home and watched this footage. It is unlike anything I have seen in years. I never thought, in my lifetime, that I would ever refer to Geraldo Rivera and Shepard Smith as Journalist, but this is nothing like anything I have ever seen before. It takes that moment. When you are out of the studio and in the thick of things where your humanity becomes unhinged, and you leave all of the desire and ambition behind, leaving nothing but the human spirit to unfold. Watch this footage. It is breathtaking. It's a moment in which humanity overtakes everything else, and we see two men fall under the weight of reality. We may never see this again so savor this moment.

Check it out here.

Thursday, September 01, 2005


From Sydney Blumenthal:

Biblical in its uncontrolled rage and scope, the storm has left millions of Americans to scavenge for food and shelter, and hundreds reportedly dead. With its main levee broken, the evacuated city of New Orleans has become part of the Gulf of Mexico. But the damage wrought by Hurricane Katrina may not entirely be the result of an act of nature.

A year ago the US army corps of engineers proposed to study how New Orleans could be protected from a catastrophic hurricane, but the Bush administration ordered that the research not be undertaken. After a flood killed six people in 1995, the Congress created the Southeast Louisiana Urban Flood Control Project. Operated by the corps of engineers, levees and pumping stations were strengthened and renovated. In 2001, when George Bush became president, the Federal Emergency Management Agency issued a report stating that a hurricane striking New Orleans was one of the three most likely potential disasters - after a terrorist attack on New York City. But by 2003 the federal funding essentially dried up as it was drained into the Iraq war. By 2004, the Bush administration cut the corps of engineers' request for holding back the waters of Lake Pontchartrain by more than 80%. By the beginning of this year, the administration's additional cuts, reduced by 44% since 2001, forced the corps to impose a hiring freeze. The Senate debated adding funds for fixing levees, but it was too late.

The New Orleans Times-Picayune, which before the hurricane published a series on the federal funding problem - whose presses are underwater and can now only put out an online edition - has reported: "No one can say they didn't see it coming ... Now in the wake of one of the worst storms ever, serious questions are being asked about the lack of preparation."

The Bush administration's policy of turning over wetlands to developers almost certainly has contributed to the heightened level of the storm surge. In 1990, a federal task force began restoring lost wetlands around New Orleans. Every two miles of wetland between the Crescent City and the Gulf reduces a surge by half a foot. Bush promised a "no net loss" wetland policy, which had been launched by his father's administration and bolstered by President Clinton. But he reversed the approach in 2003, unleashing the developers. The army corps of engineers and the Environmental Protection Agency announced they could no longer protect wetlands unless they were somehow related to interstate commerce. In response to this potential crisis, four leading environmental groups conducted a study that concluded in 2004 that without wetlands protection New Orleans could be devastated by an ordinary - much less a category four or five - hurricane. "There's no way to describe how mindless a policy that is when it comes to wetlands protection," said one of the report's authors. The chairman of the White House's council on environmental quality dismissed the study as "highly questionable", and boasted: "Everybody loves what we're doing."

Dinosaur, who?

Dinosaur, Jr.

Let me just say I was in LOVE with this band all throughout high school. I mean, I had every album, every single, every import, then there were the stickers, posters, t-shirts, pins, patches, press photos, and general shrine. There were the dreams of meeting J, and how he would fall in love with me and it just gets worse from there. I saw them at the Nile in Tempe, AZ in 1994 and it was the highlight of my young life. I was plastered to the stage front and center and as much as I wanted to get the hell away from the creepy guy behind me who's cock I would periodically feel pressed into my 14 year old back, I held my ground and it payed off. OMG! I got a fucking guitar pick! I took it home and framed it with their photo I clipped from the New Times, my ticket stub, and a sticker. Then...... the devestation. But I still had his solo albums to cling to, right?

College hit, and I stopped listening to music in general. I focused on being as unhappy as humanly possible for a while, then decided to can it and move to Seattle.

Flash forward 5 years, where a Dinosaur, Jr. CD has entered my stereo maybe twice. Then, the news...... hello reunion tour! I got all jazzed and payed $25 to relive my high school obsession at the Showbox in Seattle. By the day of the show, however, I was no longer all that excited. It had become an inconvenience to my schedule to attend. But I knew this was something I had to do.

Parking downtown was a nightmare and made me regret this decision even further - I had to pull over and let Renee find a spot before I got all road rage AZ style. Did I mention we were competing with people trying to park for Hempfest? Finally, we got inside and had to sit through 2 opening bands. I'm more impatient than ever these days, and opening bands kill me. Finally, the second band finished, and I made Renee help me secure a spot in front of the stacks of guitar amps. I soon realized we had forgotten earplugs and the earsplitting volume of 1994 flashed back. Oh well, I haven't done much damage to them in the past few years - they can take this hit.

Then there was a big long wait. I was getting PISSED. I mean, who do these washed up rock stars think they are? Arrogant assholes, making us wait 45 minutes. It's not 1994, and I don't have time for this. My back is KILLING me, I'm sober, and its pushing midnight. FINALLY, they took the stage and in my anger I screamed at them (inside my head, of course), "You're old! J, cut that gray hair - it's falling out for chrissakes!" I can see a piece dangling there - anyone with long hair knows those annoying hairs that are half fallen out that just sit there and tickle you till you pull them off. It drove me crazy the whole show. "Murph, you're old too! Get this fucking show started already!" Then I saw Lou, and thought, "Damn, kid, you look great!" By the end of the show, I had a huge crush on him.

So these brats finally start their set, and with the first note, all of my anger is washed away. AMAZING. These guys were BRILLIANT. The show was absolutely the highlight of my year. Even though I could hardly make out the songs due to my immediately damaged ears, as the guitar shook through my veins I was thrilled. The boys still have it.

I stayed after this show and would not leave until I got a pick. I came home, grabbed the frame with the 1994 novelities, and added those from August 20, 2005.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005


The Genius Behind Bush

Here is a short, informative video on the brains behind the Bushmeister. Pretty interesting.

We all knew he couldn't do it alone.

Monday, August 29, 2005


(All photos by Kubrickscube)

Sneaking Out of the Office

To break up the monotony of the workday I often like to drive to the local grocery store around mid-morning. The store is conveniently located quite close to the cube so it’s easy to breakaway without having to fill out any of the lengthily, mandatory T-37 forms.

I usually purchase the same items…a couple granny smith apples, a banana, a three-berry fruit cup and a large 16 oz. water to flush it all down. Today was no different as I decided to sneak out the back door and venture on over to make my purchase.

The grocery store’s parking lot is especially extraordinary as it harbors this one particular spot positioned even closer than the handicap spots. For two straight years I have never had the satisfaction of witnessing and/or utilizing this prime parking space. The only time this spot is ever vacant is when a car is waiting on some old guy in a walker to clear out of the way.

I pulled into the parking lot this morning and jetted down the main lane looking for a space. Off in distance I could see that the prime spot was clear and awaiting me. Finally it has happened. It’s weird how life’s little pleasures such as a good parking spot often bring a feeling of joy unlike anything else.

I quickly gunned it down the lane threatening the lives of many all for this coveted parking spot. I thought to myself; if I hit someone, then I hit someone. They’ll or their next of kin will understand once I show them how good the spot is. I guarantee all frequent shoppers of this particular grocery store have fantasized about the pleasure this space may bring to them. For those who have been fortunate enough to experience this legendary spot, I promise they went home that day and immediately told a loved one about their luck. This is how good the spot is.

I pulled into it sharply as if I had even the slightest chance of losing it. It didn’t take long to realize exactly why a space this spectacular would even be accessible to me especially for a Monday morning. My eyes immediately noticed an overweight woman in the adjacent space holding a pair of needle-nose pliers kneeling down by the front right side of her egg-shell white, ’92 Toyota Tercel. The only uglier color on a car I have ever witnessed would be my brother’s first car. His ’84 Volkswagen Jetta had an indescribable, depressing yellow that looked like it was painted on with a roller. It wasn’t a sunshine type yellow but more of a poor oral hygiene type yellow.

I could clearly see that her Tercel’s front right tire was flat and was excreting some sort of white milky fluid. I’m sure the fact that her tire was balder than Burt Reynolds had nothing to do with its current deflated status. As I got out my car she obviously was desperate to make eye contact with me. Being the good citizen that I’m supposed to be I walked over and asked her if she needed help. She said she did, so I told her to put down the needle-nose pliers and look in her trunk for the required tools that came with the car.

I was kind of surprised she was trying to change the flat with a pair of pliers because she had all the traits of a diehard Nascar fan. But I wasn’t about to let her stained, Disney themed garments be the barometer of her true character.
At first, I was grumbling on the inside that I had to do this because it’s kind of hot in late August in South Florida. Plus, I was coming from work so I was dressed in a decent pair of pants with a nice collared shirt. But then I thought to myself, even though you’re not the type to go out of your way to help a fellow citizen, you are the type to help out when an unconditional non-avoidable situation such as this one arises. So, what the hell? Just change the tire real quick and you’ll feel like you did a good deed.

I kneeled down by the tire and told her to hand me the jack and the lug nut wrench. I begin to jack up the car at a snails pace only scraping my knuckles against the piping hot concrete on every other revolution. After about ten minutes I finally get the abused tire elevated off pavement. I began to loosen the five rusted down lug nuts with the wrench. I have never felt bad for a non-living object before but my heart went out to this tire. It looked utterly mangled and was clearly neglected much like the car it came off of. If Courtney Love was to ever transform into a tire then this must be her. I pulled it off the axel and rolled Ms. Love back towards the trunk. I asked the woman to bring me the spare tire as I gathered the lug nuts into a pile.

The woman pulled the spare tire out of trunk which made a gasping thud as it hit the ground. She rolled what appeared to be the exact same tire I had just changed. However there were a few minor differences. The spare wasn’t completely flat yet it was even balder than its predecessor. This spare had definitely seen significant mileage on the road. There was no thread pattern to speak of and it had the traction of an Entenmanns Chocolate donut.

I told the woman that I thought it would be best to leave the car in the parking lot or call a tow truck. She insisted that it would be okay and that she lived near by. Immediately after she inked her last signature on the non-liability waiver my lawyer drove over I put the spare on and fastened the final lug nuts while she put the tools back in her trunk.

While I was still kneeling the woman jumped in the driver seat and started the car up. That engine purred like a dust buster. She began to slowly put the car in reverse. At first I thought this was odd because she didn’t even say thank you but then I realized she was probably just testing the spare. After kneeling for what seemed like an eternity, I struggled for a second to stand back up. By the time I got up back on my feet the woman had put the car in drive and quickly drove away. This f-ing obese, white piece of trash bitch didn’t even say thank you for my f-ing good deed.

My good action towards humanity that was supposed to bring a sense of accomplishment and joy to my soul had backfired and turned me into raging, pissed off lunatic for the rest of the day. I hope that fat, Disney carton wearing; piece of white trash suffers a painful death. Not just painful in a sense of getting pounded by a Mack truck but painful as in having one of those brain-eating organisms crawl up your nose. Kids, always judge a book by its cover. It’s much quicker than reading the whole thing.


Friday, August 26, 2005

So I'm really diasappointed in myself. I saw Mr. Kubrik's Cube or Kube or something the other day and he was like "Yeah, I thought you'd at least post something about how you haven't posted anything." And at first I was like "Well, uh, you know, I'm really busy man, and I just got back from a very exhausting trip to Boston and uh, you jerk! How dare you pressure me!" No, that's not true. Well the part about what he said is true, but my part is 75% fabrication. The truth is, I'm like a belt. I'm like a belt in the sense that I'm a buckler, like Dante in Clerks, not like Wesley in the Princess Bride, he was more of a swashbuckler. And not like the first baseman on the '86 Red Sox, that was Bill Buckner. What I'm saying is...if you tell me you're disappointed in me and I'll do just about anything to please you. So here you go Mr. Kube. You win. Here's my public, embarrassingly honest and candid and extremely well written apology.

Sorry Guys.
I'll be back soon. Promise.

Love, Lisa Jean.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005


I had first heard of the graveyard through a friend. It was located on the northwest side of Staten Island. A wasteland for marine vessels whose origins spanned over a century. No one is certain how this region became a cemetery for maritime vessels, but it is clear that a plethora of history resides in this large swath of water.

I took a trip out there in the spring of 2004. It was hard to see anything through the thick brush. My friend and I contemplated taking a small fishing boat out to it, but we decided against it when we heard it was private property, and the owners weren't afraid to prosecute. Nevertheless, a large portion of the boats are gone. They were cut into scrap metal at the local yard or they eventually deteriorated and sunk.

I found Shaun O'boyle's site a few years ago, and I continually come back to take a look at this great piece of forgotten NY history. Relics of a time long gone. Enjoy these photos, and check out Shaun's site for even more. Pictures are available for purchase as well.


I have a co-worker who irritates me for no other reason than she doesn't get my humor, nor does she understand a single word I say. That's a big handicap in my book, one that warrants me avoiding her at all cost. A few weeks prior to me making this realization, we had made plans to go out to lunch. Indian food to be exact.

Here's some excerpts from our conversation:

'So I went to Vancouver this weekend?" She stated.
"Get out!" I replied.
She looked at me curiously.
"Why do I need to get out?" she asked. "I just told you I went to Vancouver this weekend."
"I didn't mean it like that. I meant 'Get out!' like 'get out of here.'"
"Oh," she says. "You mean like slang?"

Or at another point:

"yeah, I've acquired a new eating habit."
"What is it?" she asks.
"I now make a habit of no longer eating."
"How's that working out for you?"
"Pretty good. I learned this method of weight-loss from my friend Carmine."
Her eyes widened.
"You have a friend named Carmine!" she exclaimed. "My god, are you in the mob?"

And so on and so on.

So today she comes up to my desk and tells me she's going to Boston.
"Yeah, Boston is fun," I said. "Last time I went there, me and my friend got so trashed, we couldn't find the car and had to sleep in a park. It was freezing."
"Can you recommended some sites to me?" she asked.
"Well, you should probably go check out the big dig."
She looked shocked.
"Did you just tell me that I need to check out the BIG DICK?"
"No, the big DDDIIIIGGGGG..."
"The big dick?"
"No, dig, dig. D-I-G. Dig."
"Oh, the big dig..." she said relieved. "What exactly is it?"
"It's a huge gigantic cock."
She gave me a look of disgust, then walked away. Thank god, I thought, one less asshole I have to deal with on a daily basis.


I get a call at work from a student.

"Um, yeah, hi... so listen, I'm calling on behalf of my roommate, and she is, uh, she is suffering from agoraphobia, and she is deathly afraid of talking on the phone, so I am going to translate for her, if that's okay?"
"Yeah, whatever." I reply.
"She wants to know what she owes on her tuition."
"Why does she care?" I ask. "She's not coming to school anymore."
"No, she still goes to class," he replies.
"Well then how do you classify her as a victim of agoraphobia if she can still attend class?"
"It's complicated."
"Apparently so."
"She's going through some issues right now."
"Not for nothing," I began. "But I think she's lying."
"What?" he asked.
"She's lying. She's pulling your chain. She's making you the Patsy."
"Dude, that's not cool."
"No, what's not cool is that your roommate is telling you she has this debilitating illness, yet she is still able to leave the house and make it to class. Don't you see something wrong with that?"
"I don't know."
"Yes, you do know. You're just trying to be the 'good guy,' but I'll tell you something... be the asshole."
"The asshole?"
"Call her out. Tell her that you know she's just being a drama queen. She's a spoiled brat who always gets her way and this little stunt is just another way for her to gather attention from others. You see, mommy and daddy aren't here, so she needs someone else to plaque with her issues and you just happened to be available."
"You think that's what it is?"
"Listen, it's not what I think, it's what you think."
"I don't know."
"That seems to be your very mantra."
"Can you just tell me what she owes, please."
I thought about it for a second.
"Nah, I don't think so."
"So you're not going to tell me."
"That is so uncool."
"It sure is."
"So what is she going to do?"
"She's going to either get on the phone and ask, or she's going to come here in person."
"But she won't do that!"
"Yes she will."
"You think so, huh?"
"I know so."
There was a moment of silence.
"Alright, we'll call you back."

I hung up the phone. About five minutes later, it rang.

"Student accounting." I said in my lifeless monotone voice.
"Um, hi, my roommate called you just a moment ago..."

And so on and so on.

Saturday, August 20, 2005


(All photos by Kubrickscube)


I know that posting has become sparse within the last two weeks, but with summer upon us, and heroin production in Afghanistan at a current high, you must understand that the folks at Regions are a bit pre-occupied. Nevertheless, I have dreams. Dreams that I have told to the colonel on many occasions, to the point that he has sought some type of temporary injunction to help rid himself of the endless barrage of emails that come in the middle of the night. They truly are pointless, and offer nothing but a steady stream of questions such as 'Does God wear a pinky ring, and... if so, does that mean he lives in the West Village?" Nevertheless, here is a photo of what my goal is with this sight: It is created from our good friends over at Flickr, and I hope you enjoy it.

All the writers on this sight give a hundred and ten percent for no other reason than to make you laugh and to help get us all get through the monotony of daily life. This is our goal, and we will continue to do this, and someday... hopefully... we will grow even bigger. But the point is this: We all must crawl before we walk, but I have hope, as does the colonel, and the Cubical Realist, and Lisa Jean, and Fairlady, and all the rest, that our words will continue to travel out there into the vortex of the net, and somewhere, people will find it enjoyable. As long as that is the case, then we will continue to do so, and I hope you will continue to return to Regions.

Friday, August 19, 2005


Well its getting to be that time of year again. Football season is upon us and who among us can say that they are not genuinely ecstatic at the prospect of opening day in both the NFL and college football? OK maybe a few of you can't relate but to pigskin addicts like myself late August brings a sense of unmatched excitement and anticipation. Training camps are well underway and college campuses are abuzz with two a day practice coverage. Media coverage of the NFL and NCAA football is at a fever pitch which borderlines silliness. Fan support of the leagues could be classified as a sickness or mild form of compulsive disorder with myself being included in that group. Every year I ask myself why I wait and clamor all year for this event, this grand start to a season in which I have no financial dependence or bearing, no real life implications attributed to, and no real human reason to feel such excitement. My only answer, year after year is that it is a sickness. I'm sorry to say an incurable one in which I will stay unabashedly stricken by for life. God I can't wait for the season to start.

I am starting a new job soon and I have for a few years wanted to not have to sign onto any internet(s) or email for a solid two to three months at some point in my life like I used to not have to. I considered asking my new employer about this and ran it by my wife the other day. 'You're fucking nuts you know that?' was her reply and I quickly picked up on the fact that yes, this was a preposterous request for an employer to afford in this day and age unless of course you are one of the few dinosaurs left who hide behind a secretary for such necessities. Then I read an article on Condy Rice and how she does not even have an email account at the state department. She only communicates through direct conversation. At first I was emboldened in my own effort by the revelation but then I thought, 'Jesus, she's fucking nuts!'

I feel like the new pope has got a bad gig, kind of like the new QB or coach coming into replace a hall of famer who's been there for 20 years and recently retired. He's too vibrant and looks way too alive and animated in that pope mobile.

TiVo has been one of my favorite technologies to come down the pipeline in the last few years but lately I find it to be like a distancing friend no longer calling or emailing. Still there, but distant. Our relationship has changed to the point that the only reason I use it is for one show, The Daily Show, which I love.

The reason for my neglect is simply the lack of anything quality enough to spend an hour of my life on. I can only watch Pimp My Ride reruns so much. Perhaps the battle between Hollywood and TiVo type technology took a nasty turn right under our eyes without us noticing? Perhaps Hollywood planned all along that if they couldn't prevent people from using TiVo to digitally tape their programs that they were going to broadcast the most vile and repugnant crap TV has ever seen. Then, people like myself would stop using TiVo, and soon, the networks could resume normal, watchable programs having been freed of advertising abusive TiVo.

Kubrickscube's post about crack transformation interested me to no end. I'm fascinated by human transformations via environmental effects like doing drugs, becoming the president, etc. An article in Newsweek enlightened me to the ultimate face transforming technology: crystal meth. Hot damn! Look at those SOB's! Oh, and the trademark scratches you may notice on everyone's face are the users scratching at what they presume to be bugs under their skin until they scratch it out. To make matters worse, meth smoke contains plastic which molecularly bonds with your gums and teeth giving you what's referred to as 'meth mouth' (too nasty to post here. Google meth mouth if you're that interested).

Talk to you next week.
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