So we made it to the Orange County Fair last night. We wandered around and saw some piglets that had just been born that day.

I was thinking while typing that sentence how perceptions change as you get older. In the old days, I would have been all about the Vomitron 5000 ride. But now, it's baby piggies. Hell, we didn't even go on any of the (potentially life-threatening) rides.

I did play a few midway games, and failed miserably. That's the point though really, isn't it? You know it's rigged. You might even know how it's rigged. But you still play for the sheer enjoyment of losing. I mean, who wants to carry around a giant stuffed frog for the next three hours. Not my wife, that's for sure. At least that's what she told me, as I wept openly after failing to score 190,000 points at SkeeBall.

One thing was shocking at the fair: No Aerosmith mirrors! I don't know what happened...if they just had a run on them or something, or the Steven Tyler Fan Club stole them, but there wasn't a one to be found. Sure, there were Playboy Rabbit mirrors and Jack Daniels mirrors. And the Thorny Rose mirror. That's a classic. But no Aerosmith mirror. It was a little scary.

Of course, my favorite feature of the fair was the Strangely Shaped Vegetable Contest. There were twisted carrots, lewd tomatoes, gargantuan oranges. Even some things that I'm pretty sure were from another plane, where the Old Ones sleep and grow disturbing tubers.

Final tally:
Churros consumed - 1
Midway games lost - 3
Carnies that growled at me - 17
People in the hypnosis show that were faking it - at least 6.

There won't be a quiz on that or anything. I just thought you'd want to know.

Turn your optical mouse into a cryogenic freezing chamber for your Lego pals.

So nice.

[via captaincursor]

I think I've realized now that a bakery staffed entirely by dogs might not be such a good idea.

Listen everyone. I will pay for all the damages. It just seemed like a lock.

Back to the old drawing board, I guess.

Notes from the Dodgers - Giants game, July 20th 2002

1 - Do not, under any circumstances, lightly joke to your companions that Felix Rodriguez should hit Eric Karros in the head. When this actually does occur, you will feel really awful even though there is no way that was not a coincidence. I mean, right?

2- Leaving the game: That guy in the rusted out 1972 conversion van that made that illegal right turn? He gets that one. That's gravy. When you're driving a rusted out 1972 Dodge van, you get one illegal right turn every month. This is your moment. Shout out the window to the aggravated masses, "This is my right turn, man! I am guaranteed this turn! You can't take it away from me!"

My Life As An American Gladiator Untrue Factoid: in 1982, the State of California ruled that colossal no-hopers are guaranteed one illegal right turn every month until they get a better car, or are incarcerated for public drunkenness.

The Box-Office Top 100 American Films of All Time

An interesting list, in that it shows the top 100 both adjusted and non-adjusted for inflation. Take that, Titanic!

Just want to say a quick hello to Bindlestick Billy, who has finally gotten it together to read my blog.

Woo!

Just when I think my CD collection is finally complete, something so groundbreaking, so musically stupefying, will come along, take everything I ever believed in, hold it upside-down and shake it until all the change falls out of its pockets. Not satisfied with that, it will gather up the change and fritter it away on cheap malt liquor and collectible Civil War chess sets.

Songs for The Deer Hunter (including "White Tail Boogie")

Something struck me today. Something besides the usual things that strike me, like coconuts and junebugs.

I live in an apartment hive collective. There are about eight buildings in this enclave. Each building houses about 500 people, I think. That makes 4,000 people here in this little faux-Mediterranean Southern California community. 4,000 people!

Someone, somewhere in those 4,000 people probably has someone chained up in their apartment.

Think about it.

Nick Hornby on World Cup 2002

Puppet Show and Huey Lewis and The News

So yesterday I was talking about the creeping menace that is the Orange County Fair. I figured since we live around the corner and all, I would see what delights were on offer there.

It turns out that both Carrot Top and Weird Al Yankovich are going to be a block away from my home in just a few short days. It's like one of those scifi stories where you could go back in time and kill Hitler.

Not only are those two going to be there, but so are Huey Lewis and The News. And Linda Ronstadt. And Heart. And Boz Scaggs. And the big finale: Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Locks of Love - Donate your hair to kids with leukemia and alopecia.

Maybe this is a good reason to hack off the ol' ponytail.

The Orange County Fair starts in a couple of days, and we live right around the corner from the fairgrounds.

What does this mean?

Carnies. That's what it means. Lock your doors and windows! Hide your cat! The Carnies is in town!

A number of things will be on the rise* for the next four weeks in our area:

The amount of Aerosmith being listened to
guys named Skeeter and/or Butch
Mysteriously long pinky fingernails
Tattoo tears
Shiftiness
Denim
Robitussin and/or Jasco consumption
Cackling
"The evil eye"
Drunken white trash fisticuffs
Generic cigarette filters
Late night lottery fantasies
Jam tampering
Piglet fondling



*not all of the above may actually increase. Although I'm pretty sure about the denim and the Aerosmith. The astonishing increase in value of the Spock plate is not typical, though possible.

Airplane, a new Haruki Murakami short story in The New Yorker.

[unabashedly stolen from Russ]

Everyone is familiar with the concept of the earworm: that song you get in your head and it just won't get out. It sets up residence in your cerebral cortex and you are damned to "Sweet Caroline" for the next 24 hours.

But there is another level to the earworm phenomenon.

Some songs are so integral to your character, your memories, that despite the fact that you loathe them with every fiber of your being, were they not to exist, you would be forever changed. They represent something your life moves upon and around. For that reason I call them Fulcrum Songs.

Delta Dawn: I hate Delta Dawn. It's awful. But here's why Delta Dawn is one of my Fulcrum Songs:

When I was a very little kid, my mom had a blue Chevy Nova. It had blue vinyl bench seats. I think they were vinyl. It was the same kind of material that Denny's booth seats are made of. On hot days, and we had a lot of hot days where I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area (right next to where all the Apple buildings are now), the seats would reach a temperature of roughly 8000° F. You would sit bouncing from buttock to buttock in the hopes of not lingering too long on one cheek and being irreparably scarred by the lava-like heat.

Delta Dawn, what's that flower
you have on?

There was no Air Conditioning.

The A/C in that car consisted of vents down in the foot-well that resembled medieval portcullises. They had a truly impressive lever that you would yank on to open the vent, which was more of a grate really, and it would slide open, allowing some fractionally cooler air to enter. You could always resort to the odd triangle windows that lurked just in front of the regular windows on cars of that era, waiting for their opportunity to hurl themselves from the chassis of the car and smash themselves on the pavement. Besides dramaticallly breaking themselves, these windows' sole function seemed to consist of whistling at an extremely high frequency when speeds above 40 MPH were attempted.

Could it be a faded rose
from days gone by?

But you had to get some air circulating in that car. The hump down the middle of the car (which I assume housed the drive train or some other piece of car anatomy I know nothing about) was pumping out heat like there was no tomorrow too. There was no escape from the heat. Metal window handles. Plastic and vinyl armrests. White hot dashboard. It's surprising more people didn't just combust while driving.

But Delta Dawn. My mom's car radio was AM. It had those menhir-like buttons you pressed to propel the little needle to your station of choice. All the buttons of that time seemed to be like this. You really felt like you'd done something when you pressed a button like that. The old cigarette machines are another good example. You really had to push those buttons to set your Pall Malls free.

And did I hear you say
he was a-meeting you here today
To take you to his mansion in the sky?

The radio was always on 1170 KLOK Radio, which is now Mexican Radio or News Radio. Maybe both. Maybe the dj's read the news dressed as Mariachis and play the accordion. I don't know. KLOK Radio was demonic. They played the same songs over and over again. The Cake Out In The Rain song, Eleanor Rigby....Delta Dawn is just one of them that I can never get out of my head. I think it's gone and then out of nowhere it's back. In my mind I even see some ethereal soul drifting towards a mansion in the sky, in a Heaven I don't believe in.

What does it mean? How has Delta Dawn affected me? I don't know, but it is a part of me for better or worse, burned into my head in a Chevy Nova Sweat House Ritual in mid 70s California.

Collectible Mr Peanut Advertising Merchandise

Featuring Red Plastic Nut Serving Spoon

It's The Tournament Of Stuff!

I am excited to see whether Frisbees or Toast will prevail in the TOS#7. My money has to be on Toast, though. If you're talking about just some stuff, and toast is one of the components of the stuff, then it would be hard to beat.

Fun Dip, it must be said, is some very good stuff too.

Anyway, go press some things over at the Tournament of Stuff site like I did, and eventually you'll realize you can't vote yet for Frisbees or Toast, much as you may want to. I am confident one day soon I will be able to cast my vote for toast.

There seems to be a way to predict the winners too, which might be kind of fun, but seems like a lot of effort. Why must you demand so much of me, Tournament Of Stuff? Is this link not enough?!

I love this site: My Cat Hates You.

You may have seen it before, but damn it's good.

The Jurgen Prochnow Watchdog Society informs us the Jurgen has been spotted in another really bad film: Gunblast Vodka. The title alone makes it sound worthwhile!

**

In other news, people love to get nitpicky about movies.

Strangely satisfying flying a little helicopter game which isn't so much flying a little helicopter as sitting vacantly staring at your monitor and clicking, sometimes holding, the left mouse button

[via 50 Cups]

There are bees in my apartment.

They're ordering pizza. They're menacing my cat with mental cruelty. They're drinking my beer.

Not really. They're not doing any of that. But it is a fact that there are bees in my apartment.

I noticed it a few days ago as I lolled around the house. I would glance up to the screen door and every five minutes or so there would be a couple of bees puttering around, trying to find a way out. I would walk to the door and gingerly approach, querluously extending my arm like a big sissy, and slowly opening the door. Then I would encourage them to take their business elsewhere by saying things like "Outside, bee!" or offering monetary compensation.

With sneering glances in my direction that let me know in no uncertain terms that I was only alive because they wanted me that way, the bees would buzz off onto our balcony, to go do whatever it is that bees do. Probably off to menace some poor unfortunate on a lower floor. Being on the top floor is kind of the crux of the problem.

See, living on the top floor we have a fireplace. Having a fireplace in Southern California is like having an air conditioner in Minnesota. Still, a couple of times each winter the temperature dips alarmingly below 50°F and we rush to the store for wood, in the hopes of surviving the arctic cold. The fireplace is now providing an entrance for our bee tormentors.

Being the whiz-bang thinker that I am, after only about six hours of observing this peculiar bee phenomenon, I finally figured out the fireplace-bee connection. Admittedly, this was after charging with reckless abandon through the almost four rooms of our apartment, looking for an open window. Then, having exhausted the open-window possiblities, I would repeat the search, confident that I had somehow passed over the offending window. I would like to reach a point in my life where I trust myself enough to have confidence that I have actually done something correctly the first time, but for now I theorize that inanimate objects are indeed plotting against me and move themseles around for no better reason than to make me look foolish. Well done, inanimate objects!

Armed with staggering powers of deductive reasoning, I made the connection, leapt into action and sealed up the edges of the fireplace with packaging tape. A less creative individual might have done something that made a little bit of sense like lighting a fire. Me, I went with the tape. As a result, I am now able, every few minutes, to see a very pissed off bee battering itself against the glass doors of the fireplace shaking its antennae at me and promising me a painful, sting-ridden death.

But tonight, when it gets cooler than the 85° it seems to be right now, I am going to light a fire. The wife and I will put on some wool sweaters and warm ourselves by its cheery glow, as sweat runs down our faces and we lose 15 pounds each.

I will be gone for a while.

Dreaded by fish biologists, it is capable of clearing out a pond of all living creatures and then wriggling on to new hunting grounds

Yikes! It's a giant, evil, food-chain ruining, toe-biting, house-foreclosing, grammar-correcting fish! Well, maybe not. But it's up to no good. Just look at it!

[Liberated from yhbc]

Wow. John Entwhistle has passed away.

I saw The Who in 89, on one of the Maximum R&B tour. I'm not going to get flowery about it or anything, just to say that The Who are still one of my favorite bands, and now I know I'll never be able to see them with that bass again.

Assignment: go home and listen to Boris The Spider.

My wife and I play tennis.

Note that I didn't say we play tennis well. No.

We play. Sometimes not badly, sometimes very badly indeed.

Yesterday we were playing at the rather dilapidated courts of a nearby high school, since our apartment has but two courts for 8,000 residents in our particular hive/collective dwelling space. The green windbreaks on these courts are tattered and torn, the courts are covered with fissures and canals of the sort not usually seen off the surface of the planet Mars, and the playing surface is slanted just enough for you to feel a little peculiar. Not to mention the thick layer of dirt, dust and garbage that lovingly blankets each court, making a little "puff" of potentially lethal microbes fly up from every bounce. As a result, playing there can be kind of a frustrating exercise.

As we played yesterday, I started to get a little frustrated. The ball would sail out of the court, mocking me openly, or lamely die a lonely death in the net. Sometimes, for variety, I would hit the ball off the frame of my racket, making a pleasing "doing!" noise and shooting the ball some fifty feet into the air, and forcing me to run away for fear I would be struck in the head and rendered insensible. So I swore quietly and kept playing.

About halfway into our game, we became aware of a commotion a couple of courts over. Another couple about our age were playing tennis, and the gentleman seemed to be having a hard time keeping it together. You would hear a couple of strikes of racket on ball and then something along the lines of "GODD*M THIS F*CKING GAME!" or "SON OF A B*TCH!" yelled at the top of his lungs (though without the dainty asterisks, I can assure you). This guy was freaking the heck out.

A few minutes passed uneventfully and then he howled something else and hurled his racket on the court. I swear to god this guy was headed for a heart attack in a big way.

One of the best things about it was that his wife was obviously enjoying beating the crap out of him. "Honey, was that in or out?" she would call sweetly as he cursed and jumped up and down. "In or out? In or out?"

Then the guy snaps, and I have never heard anyone put so much venom and spite and hatred into one little word in my entire life: "IN!"

I'm surprised his head didn't explode.

Anyway, we sat on our court, choking back tears of laughter, and it made me think about what a fool I must look when I get frustrated and mad on the court. It's just not worth it.

Particularly humorous McSweeney's piece. The Coach Letters (Link is actually to #6, which allows you to hop to the previous five)

A Cthulhu Hymnal

Most of these I've seen before, like the timeless classic The Lair of Great Cthulhu, but you have to love it, if only because it will give Steve White over at Plurp! some new material. Just lookin' out for ya, Steve.

A snatch of conversation drifting towards my Happy Cube Of Fun:

"You've got your Meatballs, your Cannonball Runs, your Caddyshacks, your Friday the Thirteenths."

I don't know what this guy was talking about, but I have a feeling it ended up with a teary-eyed wail about how that kid from My Bodyguard was robbed in the Oscar voting.

KinderEggs Smuggling

In fact, there is a place right around the corner from my house that engages in illegal KinderEgg sales. But I will never divulge its location, not even under threat of torture.

Well. Maybe torture would do it.

[via whygodwhy]

Added some new shows to the music trading list (Neubauten, Stones, Gillian Welch)

That's right. The good people at Toy Vault now stock Gothic Cthulhu. I think they should branch out and add Primary Color Cthulhu, in a lively mix of yellow blue and red. Or maybe Rasta Cthulhu, with dreadlock squid beard.

Number 5 is alive!

Or just insert any robot-achieving-self-awareness pop culture reference. It's easy and fun!

One day, as we huddle in our shelters, catching a few precious hours of shuteye before returning to service our robot overlords, we will look back on this story and think what fools we were. Then, of course, we'll get zapped by a giant raygun.

Time for another Kafkaesque Great Idea!

I know it's been a while since I had a great idea. To be quite frank, I've only had about four of them in the life span of this blog, which is soon to be one year. But it's quality, not quantity, right? Well, in this case, it's neither. And actually, the wife and I came up with this one together, and it's also not going to make any sense to you if you're not into German Industrial tunes.

It can't all be gravy.

Inspired by the John Lennon Baby Collection, which is, let's face it, putting a rosy face on the world and avoiding touchy topics like John's massive drug intake, I offer The Einstuerzende Neubauten Baby Angst Line!

Teach your malleable homunculus about the harsh reality and sorrow-laden facts of life with standouts such as:

Baby's First Circular Saw - Not only aurally but visually stimulating. See Baby's eyes light up at the shower of beautiful sparks!

The Haus Der Luge Crib/Playpen Set - Teach Baby that the world is full of half-truths and treachery, with charlatans and fibbers lurking at every turn.

Blixa Bargeld Baby Berets - For the fashionable Angst Baby.

The FM Einheit Push Swing - Plays a selection of FM Einheit's solo efforts to keep Baby from peaceful repose.

PVC Pipe - which just lays there and expresses the futility of Baby's existence in an uncaring world.

Pick your own m&m color mix

Finally, someone is thinking outside of the box. This is the kind of technological advance the world has been waiting for.

We changed Insurance providers here at Purgatory, Inc. This means I just attended a fifteen minute meeting about the wonders of our new HMO.

I spent the first ten minutes of the meeting noticing how the shirt I am wearing today attracts lint like some kind of magnet. I'm like the Amazing Linto, covered in every conceivable subphylum of linty goodness. My superpowers include the ability to empty dryer lint screens at a distance of five feet. I know that's not really far, but it's still marginally impressive, since you puny mortals have to get in there and rummage around with your bare hands.

Then I remembered having seen, years ago, on the TV program Real People (which is truly best forgotten), a story about a woman who made sculptures out of the lint from her dryer (like this one). Slowly I began to concoct an elaborate hallucination in which a giant dryer lint Mary and Jesus sculpture sprang fully formed from my shirt and began terrorizing the local populace, until some braniac scientist solved everything with an immense leaf blower.

But I digress.

The best part of the highly informative meeting (besides free distribution of the type of ice cream sandwiches that come about 800 to a box for ten dollars) was the insurance woman telling us that our Emergency Room visits would now be fifty dollars. "But I want to remind you," she said. "Fifty dollars may seem like a lot of money, but you should still go to the emergency room if you need to."

I could just imagine cutting off my leg in a highly improbable circular saw accident and waffling over whether the injury was really worthy of the fifty dollar price tag. I've always been one who liked to economize, so I might just cut off something else just to really make sure I got my money's worth. Or wait around until it seemed like I had the flu, just to kill two birds with one stone.

Oh man. I remember everyone had these things when I was about 11. Everyone but me, of course.

When they finally corner me, and find me deep in the stygian tunnels I've dug beneath my desk, wearing a Green Lantern mask and playing Edelweiss on a Casio keyboard, I'll blame it on not having an LED Donkey Kong when I was 11.

[thx brownpau]

Every once in a while, I am sucked into the depressing spectacle known as network television. Last night, in my World Cup daze, I happened to catch some of Fear Factor.

Let me tell you, I think the Fear Factor people are running out of ideas. I saw some Wheel Of Fortune rejects participate in a relatively alarming stunt that consisted of bobbing for plums in a half-full aquarium. They had put about fifty little water snakes in there too, and a big constrictor snake of some sort. I think the the scariest aspect of that particular stunt was pretty obvious: Bobbing for Plums?!? Who the hell bobs for plums?

Apples? Yes. But plums? That's just freaky.

Maybe the producers were under pressure from the religious right not to depict snakes and apples together, not wanting to poison the flabby minds of America's TV public. But let's be honest: if you're watching a program in the hopes of seeing someone barf on camera or get their nose bitten off by an angry varmint, your chances of going to Hell are pretty good already.

The second stunt was to drive a Pontiac Firechicken off the side of a three story parking structure into a big pile of boxes. That's not scary! The people on the show were psyched to get in there and get their Starsky and Hutch on. They said "Wooo!" a lot too, which is a good indication they weren't petrified.

I mean, what's next? Eating jelly donuts? Getting a rubdown?

Pathetic.

I am pleased to report that the Kafkaesque Cricket Underground Railroad has just shepherded another soul to freedom, and away from the gaping maw of its iguana oppressor.

I'm not sure it made it out with all of its legs intact, but five out of six ain't bad.

People always ask me the same thing. Apart from "Are you going to eat that?", what I get asked the most is "Why the hell do you call your site My Life as an American Gladiator?"

Now it can be told

I was an American Gladiator. But I was often (well, in fact, always) cut out in the final edit of the show. The shameful truth is that I was not a terribly good American Gladiator. I once managed to knock myself unconscious with those jousting sticks. I would get queasy and vomit in the little Hamster Ball battle (which, let me tell you, is no picnic). My intimidation tactics against the contestants tended to include running away, hiding behind things, and begging for mercy.

The other Gladiators, yeah, they were good guys. Even some of the women Gladiators were good guys I think. There was so much steroid use going on that pretty much everyone's genitals had ceased functioning in any useful way long ago. And the Gladiators weren't feeling any pain if you know what I mean. That's right, we were hopped up on goofballs pretty much constantly. It was one long party. A really sweaty, neanderthal party that you would want to take a long hot shower after in an attempt to get the body oil off, but still a party.

Me and Turbo used to hang out together, and try to think of a Gladiator name for me. He seemed to think Whippet would be a good one for me, but I was always partial to The Exfoliator. We never really saw eye-to-eye on that, but otherwise we got along famously. Turbo would grunt a lot and lift heavy stuff. He was really good at lifting heavy stuff. And getting oiled up. He liked that.

USA! USA! USA!

What a brilliant game. This is so huge for American soccer.

I am pleased to report that ESPN led off Sportscenter with the highlights, beating out even the US Open. I am on Cloud 9.

Yes it was a hand-ball, but that's the breaks. And yes, we will probably lose to Germany , but it doesn't matter. Nothing could be sweeter!

WE WIN!

Cthulhu slumbers
Deep in the watery depths
Making "bloop" noises

Marketing mailer I got today: "You'll hit the mark every time with new products such as sleeveless t-shirts for hip Gen-Xers."

Whoever wrote that, please take a minute and evaluate yourself. What were the series of life choices that led you to the point where you felt comfortable writing a sentence like that, whose very existence is an affront to each and every mammal on this planet? There is nothing hip about sleeveless T-Shirts or, for that matter, the term "Gen-Xer", and I think you knew that when you wrote this verbal infection.

I mean can you imagine a gang of 45 year olds in corporate-themed sleeveless T-Shirts? If hip has an opposite, that would be pretty much it.

Pinball Inflation is ruining this country.

I am a pinball fiend. The sound of the flippers. The nagging worry that something will break during your all-time high score. The magic but infrequent times that the ball itself smacks the underside of the glass, giving you a momentary rush as the thought flashes through your head that the glass could shatter, lacerating your face and forever scarring you.

But something happened in the world of pinball when I was about 13. The "million shot".

Up until then, we had been playing along in a realistic point scheme. Half a million was a fantastic score. Now all of a sudden, with the advent of the million shot, it only required ONE SHOT! I felt so cheated. The first million-shot game (I'm pretty sure) was Comet, though I may be wrong. Then it only got worse, I remember playing a game called Police Force, which had the laughable "Unlimited Millions" ramp. I sat there and shot the ball up that ramp 46 times in a row. But what did it all mean?

I had lost my innocence.

Gone were the halcyon days of High Speed and Pinbot. Now a new age was being ushered in, with machines like Bride of Pinbot, which offered a Billion Shot. A Billion Shot? I would have laughed if it didn't hurt so bad.

Where does it all end? I'll tell you where: nowheresville. Pinball point inflation was just a pathetic last-ditch effort to sway a new generation of kids who were hooked on video games, that didn't want to feel the thrill of pinball. What pinball inflation failed to take into account wa the subsequent devaluation of pinball. It's like the german Deutschmark before the 2nd world war. If you need a billion pinball points to buy a loaf of bread, does that make the bread inherently more valuable? No. It only makes the points worth less.

These days you get over a million points just for shooting the ball off the plunger.

And now, sadly, Williams, the manufacturer of all the great games I loved, like Earthshaker and Black Night, no longer makes pinball machines.

This dang World Cup. I napped through most of the eclipse, then staggered to the front door to take a look at the sun, thereby joining many people at about that time who were saying "Oh my God! Ow! Bright!'

Ow!

While we're getting all geeky, why not take a moment to revisit the Thundercats Outtakes?

Warning (Swearing aplenty)

Really, really super cool neato VW Bug Transformer thing

I have a VW Golf, but it's never transformed into anything. It's pretty dirty right now, so it would probably change into the Transformer equivalent of a transient and go sleep under a bridge somewhere. Maybe sell roses on the offramp to pay for its crack habit.

[via justin]

So I went against tradition and put a picture on my blog a couple of posts down there.

I kind of think the less pictures the better, really, but this was a special occasion what with England peeing in the Argentine Gatorade and all.

But I think too many pictures bogs the site down too much. Drop me a line and let me know what you think. Or, you know, don't. That would be OK too. Maybe just think about it while you're on the pot sometime in the next couple of days. Isn't it nice to have company in there for a change?

Printers are a strange bunch.

In my line of shirk, I am often visited by printers trying to get us to use their services. The other day, one guy came to see me, and seemed pretty normal for a while, but by the end of our little chat he was swearing like he had Tourette's or something. Maybe I looked like I would appreciate a little guttermouth action. I don't know. And he proceeded to tell me his questionable employment history and how basically everyone he has ever dealt with he would like to kill. Something told me this was not the printer for me.

And mere hours ago, another one of these peculiar people visited me.

She also seemed pretty normal. Then she showed me a brochure they had done for someone she knows who sells vending machines. Completely out of the blue she starts telling me how this friend of hers was in a terrible motorcycle accident and has diabetes and might have to have his leg cut off. I didn't really know what to say to that. Was I supposed to buy a vending machine to stop this poor guy getting his leg cut off? Was she, in a sense, ransoming her friend's leg? Instead, I made the cognitive leap between Diabetes and having your leg cut off, because I have heard of such things, being a man of the world and all. I mentioned that I had heard of this.

Big mistake. She started telling me how many relatives of hers have had various bits of themselves amputated. I'm not sure it was all diabetes related, either, or even consentual for that matter.

She sighed "I'm not going to let that happen to me."

"Uh." I said. "That's good."

Life is a caravan of delight, isn't it?

England wins!



What a brilliant game. I don't care that I've been dozing off about an hour before I go home from work every day. It's been worth it for these great matches.

The USA and England are my two teams, one by birth and one by ancestry, and they're both going to go through to the next round.

Life, as the man says, is sweet.

Solar eclipse on June 10th

Review of the 2001 Pontiac Grand Am:

After driving all those rental Grand Ams, and seeing my friend's car, I know all too well that this brand new, shiny Grand Am I am test driving will soon be a faded butt-ugly car, with bad shocks, seats with springs disconnecting and a drive-train with enough slippage to qualify as a natural disaster in California.

I personally loathe and despise the Grand Am not just because it is the K Car of the Naughties, but because of those commericals where they give people the keys to one and let them drive it around for a week. These people are really excited about driving a Grand Am. A little too excited. Maybe they've never actually been in a car before. And it never says they get to keep the car. So they go to Atlantic City and say "Baby!" a lot. As in "A.C. baby!" and "Woo, baby!"

Stop saying "baby". You sound like an idiot. You are not Sammy Davis Junior. The swing craze has mercifully ended. Big Bad Voodoo Daddy are appearing tuesdays and saturdays at a Holiday Inn somewhere in middle America. The dream is over. Hang up your spats and sleep it off, baby.

Ugly Car - I have no idea what this is for or why. But....I can't...look...away!

The Ugliest Cars in Britain

The Fiat Multipla: Combine the worst elements from a lavatory cistern, a banjo and a dead poodle and you would get something similar to the Multipla.

The Hyundai Amica - One of our readers ... reports that his wife's yellow Amica "looks like a malformed tweety pie crouching in the driveway" and that she would have been better off buying 6000 lottery tickets.

Special Appearance by The Pontiac Aztek (all time leading vote getter)

Electricians are good at being really really noisy.

There is a gang of about three of them here, clustered around the fusebox, loudly discussing things in a vaguely convincing way.

At least that's what they're doing when you walk by them. I suspect that, as soon as you pass them by, they look at each other furtively and say "Dude. I have no idea what I'm doing."

"That wire there? What's it for? And that dangly thing? Jeez. Could be anything."

"Hank! Come here and touch this dangly silver thing for us."

"I'm not touching that. What if it's live?"

"Hey -- here comes someone. Anyway, you can see the 8 inch twilliger switch is mainlined and surging the dipthyion."

"Got to be 40,000 Amps of dipthyion there."

"So we'll feed the base amperage through the...the...uhh. Dude, he's gone."

"'Dipthyion?' What the hell is dipthyion?You really pulled that one out of your ass, Dave."

"I know, man. So, El Pollo Loco for lunch?"

Louise, Mrs. Badger, has added Giant Root Beer to the Eccentric America site.

Just imagine the size of the Root Beer Float you could make.

NASA Guys Getting All Crazy With The Zero-Gravity Water Balloon Popping

The name of this feature is "Did you ever wonder what it would be like to see a water balloon pop in space?"

Truthfully, the answer is "not really." But now I'm sorry I wasn't wondering about it, because it looks really cool. Just think of all the years I could have spent dreaming of water balloons popping in space, and the giddy release that would have been reached when these videos were viewed!

But no. I never even thought about it, so I just get to think "Hey neat!" and then go back to eating pretzels.

Perhaps, though, the seed has been planted with the viewing of these balloons bursting. Perhaps I will have daydreams of other, more exciting stuff exploding in space, and will live out the rest of my days feeling sadly nonplussed for want of more and more exciting zero gravity burstings.

Nah.

You know what's a great way to fill those awkward conversation lulls that sometimes happen?

Just stare intently at your fellow yammerer and say quietly "Would it be alright if I touched your eyeball? Just a little?"

If they say no, ask them if you can wear their shoes for a while. This is a particularly effective conversational tool with complete strangers.

Been...up...since...four am. Need coffee! Help me, Juan Valdez!

Why was I up at four? To watch Senegal beat France in the opener of the World Cup!

For the next few weeks updates may be patchy and sporadic and of a decidedly soccer-oriented nature.

Best ad I've ever seen: The Adidas Football-itis spot with Beckham, Zidane, the scary bald ref, and soccer-playing dachsunds. It just doesn't get any better.

One of my coworkers just walked by with what looked like a plastic handbag. He is an ex-military guy who acts like he is still in the military.

I pointed at the purse, and he explained "It's to keep my eggs in."

I left it at that.

And since we're marginally on the subject, did you know there's a Giant Clam Statue in Pismo Beach? Neither did I!

I was all excited about it too, until I saw the picture.

People, if you're going to make a monument to the grandeur of the noble clam, as least have the decency to make it look vaguely like a clam.

Cardhouse's Cross Country Burn

A couple of years old, but still just a nice little "driving across the country" travelog*. It makes me want to go drive across the country right now. I get that feeling every summer.

I have an image of myself cruising around in a really boring state like North Dakota, collecting amusing anecdotes that I can bore people with in my golden years. This is probably related to my frequent rereading of Bill Bryson's Lost Continent, which is an excellent and very funny travel book. I admonish you never to get a Bill Bryson book on tape, though, because his voice makes you want to

a. fall asleep at the wheel

or

2. pummel him.

I want to be out there, driving into the sunset on a warm summer night, taking pictures of disproportionately large things. It's all I can do sometimes, on my way home from work, not to just turn the car in the other direction and spend a couple of days on the road (first stopping to pick up the wife, of course).

I don't care that there's nothing out there. That's the point.


* It should be noted that this travelog includes The Burning Man Festival, which I have not attended, and which I am, frankly, a little sick of hearing about. Particularly when people just won't shut up about it. Hey, I calls 'em as I sees 'em.

Lords of Light!! Is it hot outside! Yow!

This is the first in a series of efforts to incorporate the Thundarr The Barbarian saying "Lords of Light!!" into my daily repertoire of annoying phrases. I'm thinking of also calling people Ookla, though that might be misconstrued.

Boss: "Kafka, where is that piece of corporate blather you were supposed to compose and lovingly lay out for us to completely change and take credit for?"
Kafka: "Lords of Light!! I seem to have not done it, boss!"
Boss: "Could you move more than just your mouth when you talk? It's a little unnerving."
Kafka: "No thing, Ookla."

Hmm. My blog disappeared for a while, and some of you may have gotten a "Template Not Found" message.

I fixed it.

I say that while looking around in the manner of someone who just fixed his car even though he has no idea how. I delved into the template file and changed a couple of things on a purely guesswork basis. And it worked!

Suffice to say, the only thing holding this site together is the HTML equivalent of chewing gum and bungee cord, so for God's sake be careful and don't touch anything. And take off your shoes before you come in here! How many times have I told you not to track mud across the links? Do you want a timeout? I think you do.

What sucks?

The "Insert" key. That's what.

And peanut Jelly Bellys.

Here are some little moments of love I composed in honor of the "Insert" key.

Death to The Insert Key
Why must you taunt me so?
I have spent a long time fooling myself
Into thinking I can type better than a squirrel
So why this constant scorn?

The Endless Cycle
The text disappears.
New covers old
in a soft symphony
of renewal.

William Carlos Williams, Frustrated Typist
So much
depends
on
the
in
sert
key not
pissing me
off

And, finally, our honeymoon snaps from New Orleans.

Can it be? Updates to Nachtopus.net??

Our pictures from E3.

Also, camping pictures.

Michael Hutchence isn't really dead. He's living on in a song I can't get out of my head.

You see, every time I use my wife's bathroom (yes, we have separate bathrooms. It's a thing of beauty) I notice that on top of the toilet she has an aromatherapy tray. I don't know anything about aromatherapy or why you would need a tray for it. I think there may be some fragrant unguents involved, though. That's enough for me to know I don't need to know any more.

Anyway, the tray has these little aromatherapy catch phrases around the rim. "Rejuvenate" it says.

"Exfoliate. Luxuriate. Integrate"

There now. I'm sure all of you have that damn INXS song "Mediate" stuck in your head now.

I got a pamphlet in the mail today for a seminar called "How to Handle People with Tact and Skill".

I'd go, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to greet my minions with my customary "Good morning, dickheads!" anymore.

Shoeless Joe Jackson's Virtual Hall of Fame

More fun with Wong Kar Wai.

In The Mood For Love Homepage

The Writing Game

I hacked myself to shreds shaving this morning.

As I gazed at my razor, a sudden flash of insight streaked like a comet (well, a really small comet) across my mind, lighting the early morning synapses: "I should really change that blade."

Happy with my proactive thinking and level-headedness, I silently congratulated myself, even going so far as to give myself a little wink in the slightly steamy mirror. I toyed with the prospect of giving myself one of those pointing-finger gestures that are usually accompanied by a little mouth clicking sound, but decided against it. I knew this would be a good day if I had performed such a feat of self-preservation first thing in the morning!

So, swelled with pride I went ahead and shaved, forgetting to actually perform the blade-changing task of which I had recently felt so proud.

It all started to go bad at the Adam's Apple*. I don't know why I was shaving my Adam's Apple. It doesn't have any hairs on it. I was just shaving with what we have established was an insufficiently sharp blade, and I happened to catch sight of my Adam's Apple, just quietly Appling away there about mid-neck. I had gotten some shaving cream on it, which may or may not be incidental to why it got shaved, and subsequently cut. Suffice to say the reasons for the Apple shaving are not entirely clear at this time, but that it was indeed shaved, as much as something hairless can be said to have been shaved. So I cut my Adam's Apple.

This is not a pleasant experience, in case any of you would-be daredevils out there might be thinking of getting in on the ground floor of this new self-mutilation craze. It kind of stung, but didn't really hurt all that badly. The worst aspect of the Apple-cutting was that I kept having (and am still having) mental images of those emergency tracheotomies you're always seeing in Vietnam War films. This is making me a little jumpy. You should, incidentally, always carry around a bic pen just in case someone, someday, needs an emergency tracheotomy in your general vicinity**. You'll be prepared.

The cut was pretty spectacular. Nothing along the lines of the elevator lobby scene in The Shining, but enough to make the more squeamish a little uncomfortable. That was when it struck me that I hadn't actually changed the blade on my razor.

All my previous hubris and pride disappeared instantaneously. What sort of fool was I? I thought to myself. Got to change that blade!

So, of course, I continued on shaving with the old blade.

Cuts recorded:
lip: 1
Adam's Apple: 1 (large)
neck: 2
chin: 2

I should also add, tangentially, that under no circumstances should you start thinking about Un Chien Andalou, or even the Pixies song Debaser, while you are shaving your face.



* This is a sentence which not only describes my shaving accident, but also the whole original sin thing. Makes you think, doesn't it?

** I recommend simple blue or black ink. You don't want to get carried away and get one of those four-color jobs. You might do more damage than good with one of those babies.

This is the last thing I need.

Video games for cats. Honestly, I don't think my cat could figure out a video game. His favorite toy is a hazelnut, if that gives you any idea of his mental acuity.

But it may not be a good idea to start your cat on the road to computer mastery. Next thing you know he's got a Linux litter box and he's ruined your credit rating. Be warned.

[via betobeto]

Ketchup World!

Featuring

Packets from around the world - Actually, from Illinois, Georgia and Florida, but who's quibbling?

Um... OK. On second thought, Ketchup World is not all that interesting. It's kind of like a roadside amusement park that only has one ride. Or a pony ride stall where all the ponies are dead. You know, if there was ketchup there too.

Sometimes, the tiniest event can spark the deepest sense of disquiet.

As I entered the men's room here at work for a little quality time on the company's tab, how could I have been prepared for the truly soul-destroying sight that awaited me, that threatens to never again allow me a moment's sleep, the vision that will haunt my subconscious like a hideous neon nightmare?

Someone left a spork on top of the toilet.

Ahh! Opening a shiny new can of Mountain Dew is like opening a brand new chapter of life!

The fresh, chemical-scented breeze wafting from the now-gaping maw of the can gives you a brief glimpse of the opportunity the new day brings, briefly sparing you from the carnival of sorrow that is your meaningless existence.

*weeps*

I know, I know.

That last post was a little bitter, and a tad pithy. I shouldn't let that happen.

To make up for it, here are some more pictures of Lawn Geese Costumes:

Biker Dude

Goose Inexplicably Dressed as a Cow

Hillbilly Man - Note the moonshine

Bee

Elf

Black Cat?!?

Ghost

Deluxe Turkey

A trio of goslings in their traditional roles as Mouse, Clown and Gambler.

Not weird enough for you? How about outfits for your cement deer? You could dress the little feller as, I don't know...a hunter?

So now, the bold fervor of patriotism that led millions of people to put American Flag bumper stickers on their Ford Aspires is starting to wane.

Every day, as I toodle around in the nightmarish congestion of Orange County, I am presented with flags in various states of decay. Sunbleached and fading, they are becoming the orange, beige and turquoise instead of the red, white and blue. Soon, a hundred thousand stickers on a hundred thousand minivans will be sporting Jasper Johns' after-image flag.

America is the land of the token gesture.

Andy Carvin's Southeast Asian Travel Diary

Just a fantastic travelog by the New Media Program Officer for the Corporation for Public Broadcasting in Washington DC. It even features RealAudio clips of local sounds.

*sigh*

I want to go.

A Message to Virus Makers:

You should probably think about making the subject and text of your virus emails a little more believable.

Example:

Subject: Here is Windows XP Patch!
Body: Here is Windows XP Patch! I think you like it.

This "I think you like it", while possibly intriguing on some sort of morbid grammar curiosity level, is not the usual mode of discourse one employs when sending unrequested patches to complete strangers (who don't actually run XP). Whenever I send XP Patches to complete strangers, I like to open with a nice friendly "Hi! I don't know you, but I am concerned that your Version of XP is not functioning at its optimum level."

See? Now the hapless victim trusts me, fooled into believing that I am concerned about his/her computer.

Then, I would go on to make the attached virus file sound as enticing as possible:

"This XP Patch is so superbly crafted, so lovingly fashioned, you will be put in mind of summer breezes and the sweet and lush fragrance of strawberry shortcake. Why don't you install it now, and instantly transport yourself to the warm bubblebath of Windows XP!"

That would work, I tell you.

But no, every virus has to say something like "I am wanting that enjoy you" or "Joke are fun having".

Help out Doc at Deuce of Clubs

Deuce of Clubs is a great site, by the way, that I never link to because everyone else already does. And Cardhouse too.

First off, I want to send out my heartfelt apologies to Sniffles The Mouse, for insinuating that he was involved with the Merrie Melodies people, an assertion which is totally untrue. He was, in fact, in the Warner Brothers stable.

I also want to say I'm sorry for implying that Sniffles was ever head of a Colombian Drug Cartel in the early 1970s, that he wrote prescriptions for Elvis Presley and that he was singlehandedly responsible for spreading Hantavirus into humans. And the gangland slayings thing. That was mostly hearsay.

Sorry, Sniffles.

The Hammacher Schlemmer Unexpected Catalog

Stereo Egg Chair - No-one needs one of these. As far as I know, the only people who have ever considered buying the Stereo Egg Chair are card-carrying supervillains or escapees from the 70s with Muttonchops and those yellow-lensed glasses. It should come with a big gold medallion and love oil. And I don't even know what love oil is.

Inflatable Iceberg - I ask you, what sort of deranged company sells an inflatable iceberg without the accompanying inflatable walruses and penguins*? It's just cruel. The sizzle, but not the steak.

Sleep Sound Generator - I don't know about you, but if I worked in the audio department at Hammacher and Schlemmer, I'd wait until about 45 minutes into the recording and then yell "AAAAAAGH! A BEAR!!". Of course, I do not work there, luckily for you.

Home-Grown Organic Shiitake Mushroom Kit - It is important to note that using the Home-Grown Organic Shiitake Mushroom Kit as a hat or in any non-horticultural manner, officially voids the warranty.

Briefcase Theramin - Very very cool. Impress your boss at the next board meeting by whipping into a spontaneous rendition of the Star Trek Theme, or perhaps a medley of Lothar and The Hand People hits.

Large Garden Brachiosaurus Topiary - Worried about trespassers? Worry no more by scaring the hell out of them with dinosaur shrubbery! At least the more impressionable among them.

Personal Disco Dance Floor - Worried you don't look foolish enough? Worry no more!



* By the way, don't get any ideas about emailing me and crowing about how walruses and penguins live on opposite poles, and therefore would never be found, even inflatably, on the same artifical iceberg. Alternately, if they do live together in peace and harmony, both inflatably and non-inflatably, feel free to drop me a line and let me know how well I'm doing researching these things and not just winging it.

Vanilla Coke came out today. There are many facets to this exciting carbonated beverage barnburner of a story:

- Does Coke really need to advertise? (corollary: Does milk really need to advertise?)

- When I was a young lad, I watched television religiously in my soundproof enclosure, under observation by a team of Russian scientists who subjected me to horribly intrusive mind control experiments. OK, that last part is not technically true. They weren't Russian. What I'm really saying is that during these formative years, I was exposed to the television show Laverne & Shirley, in which otherwise rational, if a little screechy and annoying, human beings voluntarily ingest a mixture of Milk and Pepsi. Wanting to remake myself in a fashion more closely resembling Lenny of the redoubtable Lenny and Squiggy, I tried to concoct my own Milk-Cola treat. Now, I don't know if the Laverne & Shirley people saw this as some cruel joke, or if they sincerely believed people could ingest Milk and Pepsi. I'm not here to point fingers, or to suggest some sort of Class-Action lawsuit against Penny Marshall is in order, but I am here to tell you that you should under no circumstances attempt this beverage.

It curdles, for one thing. And it makes you feel ill, like you may be explosively sick without warning. Unless that's your cup of tea (or cup of bile) my advice is to turn the other cheek.

- Is Coke under pressure to create something that fails spectacularly every couple of years? I give Vanilla Coke about 2 months.

Toonopedia is a great cartoon treasure trove, which I discovered when searching for Sniffles the Mouse info.

Once again, Sniffles, I owe you a debt of gratitude!

Where is my Mind?

You're smart, shy, and often nonsensical. You have dreams of being famous, and you're quirky enough that you just might pull them off. Some would call you a genius, others would call you insane, but in reality you're pretty well-adjusted. Take a vacation once in a while- it'll help take your mind off of your troubles.

Which Pixies song are you?

Now that I think about it, most Shower Songs can be greatly improved by singing as one of the following personae:

- Sniffles the Mouse
- William S. Burroughs
- Fred Gwynne as the "Sometimes, death is bettah" neighbor from Pet Sematary (who I couldn't one picture of on the whole net. Poor Fred)
- Fred Gwynne as Herman Munster
- a pirate of your choice
- Mushmouth from Fat Albert
- Sinistar

You know what's one of the best Shower Singing Songs ever? That song by The Smashing Pumpkins (which might possibly be called Rocket or something) that goes "I used to beeee a leeetle boyeeee."

I like this song.

When I sing it in the shower, I sing it in the voice of Sniffles the Mouse from the Merrie Melodies cartoons of my youth. If you are unfamiliar with the work of Sniffles The Mouse, you may sing it in the voice of Scooby and/or Scrappy Doo.

There may be a wormhole under my desk.

This was brought to my attention moments ago when, in a morning feeding-frenzy of near epic proportions, a rogue Cheez-It managed to dance its way into the hidden sub-desk abyss. Even now, the Cheez-It may be starting a new life in a new town, somewhere we can but theorize about.

God speed, little friend. God speed.

Lately I've been keeping myself busy and staving off doing anything useful by feigning interest in the NBA Playoffs.

Basketball is not fabulously interesting for me. Of course, I like pretty much every other sport. Even Jai Alai, which exists only to save crossword puzzle creators who have painted themselves into a corner. I'm even crazy for horseshoes, which I defended in a lengthy argument with my wife, who was deriding horseshoes as not actually being a sport (it is). In fact I like pretty much any sport where you throw things at other things, but basketball ranks pretty low on my list.

Anyway, what I really wanted to say about basketball is that the face mask things that some of the players wear scare the bejeezus out of me.

The mask itself is just creepy as hell. It's transparent and make the player look like a psycho-killer

If your face is broke, as they say in big time sports circles, you shouldn't be playing. If I had to play against one of these guys, I'd be crying like a baby. "Coach! Don't put me in against that guy! What if his face falls off?"

I'm sure basketball players have nightmares after playing against the face mask guys, like in the old ghost story where the yellow ribbon is the only thing that keeps the girl's head atttached.

Oh hell. Now I'm all freaked out. If it's not someone's face falling off, it's their whole head.

Very fun

Especially Dig For Memories

and

Pirates in Advertising

[via Euphorb]

I have a confession to make, and I have reached the stage of my life where I think full disclosure is an important thing, so here goes:

I hate The Eagles.

I know, I know. It's a little hard to accept at first, but you're just going to have to accept me as I am. "Hotel California" will never, ever, find its way onto any playlist in which I have the slightest say. Maybe you picture the two of us relaxing one day, reminiscing about our good old times, when you start to tap your toes to the twangy 70s rock beat issuing from the speakers. "Kafkaesque," you think you'd ask. "Is that the Eagles?"

And I would smile in a way that implied some deep knowing had passed between us and inexorably bonded us and say quietly "Oh yeah." Maybe even making that little "Toking on the invisible roach" gesture which I for some reason associate with Eagles fans.

This scenario is not possible, due to my loathing for The Eagles and all that they represent.

I would go so far as to say that it is more likely I would be listening to The Doobie Brothers, even though I honestly have no idea what they even sound like, or The Moody Blues, who I thought for a while sang that "Touch of Grey" song but in fact did not.

And I even have a Creedence Clearwater Revival greatest hits album! True, I've only listened to it once, and I picked it up for fifty cents at a Flea Market, but the striking inconsistency is there!

Don't even bother trying to educate me as to how The Eagles were really groudbreaking and actually were very impressive musicians. I do not care.

From this day forth, let it be known, My Life As An American Gladiator is an Eagles-Free Zone! If this weblog were the movie Conan the Barbarian and I were, however unlikely this may be, cast in the Schwarzenegger role, this would be the moment where I swear eternal vengeance on that Snake Cult Guy, though in this case he would be played not by James Earl Jones, but by Don Henley. Was Don Henley even the singer? I don't know!!

That's how much I hate The Eagles.

Even now, as I type this, my hate for them is growing exponentially larger, exacerbated by the fact that I am thinking about them for no other reason except to share with you how much I hate them. Which is a lot.

Oh, man! Finally!

Brideshead Revisited on DVD June 25th.

Apocalypse Now Transcript - The horror... The horror.

Also, an early draft of the film. Very different.

By the way, why haven't they released a DVD version with Hearts of Darkness included? Why I ask you?!

This is the post I wrote at 4 this afternoon, that Blogger couldn't seem to publish:

You all would be really remiss in your duties, by the way, if you neglect to watch Tom Waits on David Letterman tonight.

I will expect a full report on my desk at 9 A of the M.

It was perhaps the only post I have ever written informing you of upcoming events that called for some alacrity on your part. Now, at this late hour, the few of you in the Pacific Time Zone have a precious remaining moments to high-tail it to your TV and catch the show.

Ah, life.

Aiiiieee!

Sinister, unexplained Mince Pies - God knows, the last thing you want to do is go messing around with otherworldly sweetmeats. Mince Pies may seem harmless enough. They are slow to anger and relatively inanimate. But once you get their dander up - look out! They'll be hell-bent-for-leather out of that muffin tin and latched on to your leg, sucking out your fluids for their unspeakable Mince Pie reasons that are ...umm... known only to them.

But the fangs!

Attention, small Record Shop aroiund the corner from my work:

Do not force me to take my CD business to the Wherehouse in the future, as you did today. Do not tell me you have the two new Tom Waits CDs, and even gesture to them, sitting mere inches from my sweaty paws, only to deny me their Waitsy goodness because they "haven't been entered into the computer yet". Don't send me off to the uncaring abyss of the Wherehouse. I hate the Wherehouse, which sucks all the cool out of you like some hideously dull vampire.

Don't tell me to come back later, and act like me wanting to give you thirty dollars is inconvenient for you at this time.

The Wherehouse got your thirty dollars, and the Wherehouse sucks a mountain of ass. Just remember that.

There is a menace out there, stalking restaurant parking lots in the greater Southern California metropolitan region. You may know it by its jaunty green vest and insincere salutations. I'm talking about valet parking.

I have never been subjected to such a rash of unnecessary valet parking as here in the Newport Beach area. Last night I took my wife out for Thai food for her birthday, and was a victim of superfluous valet parking. The simpering little toady who valet parked the Kafkamobile had to do about 10 seconds of work for me: I got out of the car, instructed him in the key situation and went into the restaurant, where I watched him turn the car around and park it about two feet from where I myself had left it. This, of course, meant I had to tip him.

This isn't even the worst example of enforced valet parking here in the land of wigs and novelties. We recently went out to eat with some visiting friends to a restaurant in Laguna Niguel, which was pretty crappy but had an ocean view. This place also had mandatory valet parking, and an almost entirely empty parking lot. I pulled into the lot and attempted, as any right-thinking individual would, to park my car. Next thing I know, there's someone basically unemployable telling me I have to let him park my car in one of the 470 unoccupied spots which are about five feet from me. OK.

We went into the mediocre restaurant and had a mediocre dinner. Afterwards we dutifully participated in the valet parking farce, in which we went to the Valet Hut or Valet Chalet or Valet Yurt or whatever they call their evil valet lair, and gave the valet our tag. There were about three cars in the gargantuan lot, and my little Golf was seriously mere inches from where we were standing. The valet strode purposefully over to the car, started it up, and drove it six inches so I could take over command of the vehicle.

My wife and I had been smirking about this farcical charade all evening, and had agreed that we should tip the guy a couple of bucks, just so we would feel justified in later wishing death on the entire management staff of the restaurant. So I slipped Chet a couple of dollars, feeling like I was doing him a favor merely by not indulging in a little chop-busting on his valet ass.

"Sir!" he said, in a low, confidential tone, obviously hoping not to embarass me in front of the parking lot shrubs. "There's a six dollar charge for valet parking!"

[the rest of this anecdote is totally untrue and made up in the interest of making me feel like more of a man, instead of the horrible truth which is that I paid him the six dollars]

Quickly, I sprang into action, pulling the Valet's red vest (which marked him as only one step above movie-theatre ticket tearer on the employment ladder) up over his head in a bizarrely humiliating version of the wedgie. I picked him up by one Skecher and twirled him around, launching him over the cliff into the briny deep. We drove off into the night, deaf to his slowly fading pleas for help as his life's essence ebbed out with the tide. Some say to this day on clear Autumn nights, when the moon is just right, Chet the Ghost Valet can be seen parking phantom cars for all eternity for his crimes.

Ladies and gentlemen, the mayor of Hartlepool

That's right. The monkey won.

Further developments and possible scandal!

El Rey Del Art

I don't know why, but I find this guy's paintings strangely pleasing and comforting.

Feast your eyes on:

Secret Monkey Head

Devil Monkey Crab 2

Surly Squid 13

Monkey Like The Music (featuring bongo-playing hamster)

Robot Monkey

Drunk Sea Monkey

Things my girlfriend and I have fought about

Not, and I stress NOT, things that my wife and I have fought about.

That would be wrong.

[via holloway]

Moneygami

There a lot of things to do with your hard earned dough in this fast-paced and complex world we live in. Why not make origami spiders out of it? Or maybe a serpent? Crack wise to your friends about the link between money and the phallus. Your friends love that kind of stuff.

Or maybe they would prefer

A kappa (a mischevious water spirit from Japanese folklore) folded from out-of-circulation yen notes

Windmill - nice because you can use the word "Quixotic" in reference to it, and generally annoy others.