Look what none of us can buy!

It's nice

Fuck you, celebrity adulating dumbass skeezers!

So this last Tuesday I moonlighted, working security at the local premier of Captain Morgan's new liquor, Tattoo. Tattoo is just like the regular Captain Morgan's rum, only it tastes worse.

The invite list was restricted to local bar workers, and the event featured on-site tattooing and piercing, drunken play piercers, drunken fire-dancers, scantily clad trapeze artists, scantily clad Captain Morgan's spokesmodels, scantily clad local band Helles Belles, and scantily clad local bartenders and cocktail waitresses, all of whom did their level best to put a dent in the unlimited free alcohol that flowed all night long.

But the highlight of the evening was Captain Morgan's celebrity spokesmodel himbo Dennis Rodman. Apparently Rodman represents the bad boy image the Captain hopes to imbue Tattoo with.

Rodman was set to arrive by riding a motorcycle up a ramp and into the building. And man, there is nothing better than trying to clear and maintain an open space in a crowd of several hundred drunk people, so that a celebrity can ride a motorcycle into their midst. It's even better if the celebrity keeps on delaying his arrival. When Rodman finally did get there, you would have thought Jesus himself had ridden down from heaven and started passing out free cocaine. Everybody cheered, and tried to press in on the himbo and his bike.

Once he got off the bike, he retreated over to a wall covered with Tattoo logos, and started posing for pictures. Our detail formed a line as best we could, and held the drunk folks back.

As I held the dumbasses back, I meditated on the nature of celebrity. In front of me stood dozens and dozens of sluttily dressed bimbos, the whole mess of them wriggling and squealing and doing their best to get closer to Rodman. Had Rodman so commanded, any one of them would have dropped to their knees and blown him right then and there. As I meditated, I realized any one of these skeezers would have done anything to get close to Rodman. Rodman the Celebrity.

It was then I realized, again, that we are doomed. The same cultural forces compelling housewives to have strongly-held, vigorously defended Pitt/Aniston/Jolie positions also drive the bar sluts to want to breed with Rodman. Our culture revers celebrities the way previous socities revered their emperorer or their gods.

But an emperor could send legions to aid you. A god might smite your enemies. By contrast, a celebrity makes appearances, grants interviews, and talks about 'where they're at now.' The only thing celebrities are good at is being famous. Who would you want on your side in a knife fight - Marcus Aurelius, or Paris Hilton?

A society such as ours, that places so much value on fame, is fundamentally flawed. For what we value is what we will emulate. By prizing fame for the sake of fame, we assign value to that which has none. The more people there are who succeed by our society's definition, the more people there will be who have no value.

So to you bimbos who tried so desperately to attract the attention of Rodman, I say fuck you. Go read a book. Go read a newspaper. Go vote. Go think about something. Try and come up with one idea of your own. If you don't, if you can't, we are all fucked.

Neato!

Google never fails to impress me. While I banged my head against the brick wall that is the Hawaiian Department of Corrections, I was surfing and ran across the Google Short Message Service.

Basically, the service lets you send a text message to google, and google will hit you back with the information you're after. You can get driving directions, business and residential telephone numbers, weather reports, word definitions, simple searches, froogle, and more.

I think my phone's web browser is dippy and clunky, but I'm an old hand at sending text messages. Where I might not be willing to log on to the Internet from the field, I could definitely manage to send a text message. Someday, when I'm lost out in the hinterlands of Renton, or Federal Way or East Shitty, this thing is gonna save my ass.

Wasn't sure if y'all knew about it, so I figured I'd pass it along. Mazeltov!

Someone's goin' Poopies!!

Hey all. I've found some old photos too. Wow...they look so young.

The right to privacy was illin'

and now it's dead. Check it:

Zaba Search

I don't know if I'm the last guy in the world to find out about this, but it's essentially a search engine of a bunch of different publically available sources for locating people - changes of address, property records, etc. It's not as accurate as the pay services, but's a hell of a lot better than the online telephone directories. Plus it's, you know, free. I would have killed for this back when I was at The Hive.

If you check yourselves out, you'll probably see a whole lot of old addresses, but you'll probably see your current address and phone number too. Neat. Also a little scary.

Anyway, privacy is dead. RIP man - you were pretty radical.

It's a fact!

All the weirdest words are intransitive verbs. See deliquesce, acquiesce, etc.

That's a verb without a direct object, baby.

Young and hot.

Check out the table. Mmmm.....red.
Even then we had to restrain Tom.


Check out the hair.

Dictionaraoke!

Um, wow.

Cymothoa Exigua

So there's a parasite that eats a fish's tongue and then replaces it with its body. The world is much more amazing (and creepy) than we generally allow ourselves to believe.

Description

Images

More Links

Intelligent design, or evolution? You make the call!

Later that day...

Again with Katrina

I'd be interested in hearing what y'all are thinking about Katrina now. Myself, I have four thoughts.

First, there's one good thing. As NPR told me yesterday, I'd be willing to bet the Coast Guard winds up getting more money. That's cool, as they've distinguished themselves during Katrina and during 9/11. They know how to work with local, state and federal agencies, and it seems like they have a bias toward action. In recent years, more money has been spent on sexier, 'anti-terror' programs, to the detriment of the Coast Guard. So, God willing the Coasties will get some recognition and some green, as a result of their busting ass.

Second, God willing, Brown will serve as a caution to patronage appointments. That unctious little turd didn't exactly have a lot of experience managing emergencies before he became director of the federal agency responsible for, you know, managing emergencies. Moreover, he'd stated previously that he viewed natural disaster relief programs as a form of welfare. There's some truth to that, but that's on the recovery loan, support program end of things. When cities are flooding and people are dying, it's totally appropriate for all levels of government to do everything they can to save lives and mitigate damage. I'm sure Shirley Temple was one hell of an ambassador, but it's time to reign in the patronage gravy train, especially when it comes to positions responsible for saving or taking lives.

Third, maybe Bushie and company will realize there are more threats out there than terrorism. I've always hated the name Homeland Security -- it's creepy and fascist. From what folks have said, within that agency, the only way to get funding for a program was to frame it in a anti-terrorism light. It's an old saw that generals are always preparing to win the last war, but when it comes to Homeland Security, that's exactly what they're doing. In my mind, it's time to split the agency into two groups -- a civil defence agency, responsible for the nation's physical safety in the event of natural or manmade disasters, and an MI-5 style domestic intelligence agency, responsible for preventing terrorists and whatnot from attacking us. Any agency responsible for both functions, like Homeland Security, is going to tilt one direction, to the detriment of the other.

Fourth, it's time for black America to grow the hell up. The problem of getting help into New Orleans was made worse by the violence that happened there. I've got zero patience for all the apologists for the violence who've sprung up. There is no excuse for shooting at a medevac helicopter. There is no excuse for attacking a hospital filled with patients. There is no excuse for raping and assaulting your fellow refugees. To say otherwise is the purest bullshit.

Further, in my mind, the disaster and a lot of people's response to it show what a good job we've done of infantilizing black America. If you treat people like they can't do shit, eventually they'll believe you. You can argue that the city should have done a lot more to get poor, carless folks out of New Orleans -- I've seen the pictures of the flooded parking lot full of city buses, just like the rest of you. But if you've got a million-pound ShitHammer of a storm bearing down on you, and the mayor has ordered you to evacuate, it's time to leave. If the government won't come pick you up in a goverment bus, then it's time to find a way out all by yourself. It's your life. Take responsibility for it.

Anyway, that's what has been floating around in my head. I'd love to hear what y'all think.

Thank you, Kurt

Luddite Round-Up

Luddite Round-Up will be an irregular feature of this blog. Each post will detail various proofs that we've spent the past several decades sliding from our once proud position as hunting, gathering, warring kings of the food chain to our current lowly vantage as fat, helpless, cheese-doodle-eating, TV watching, not-voting-but-complaining worthless sacks of shit. Enjoy my periodic fits of temper, and feel free to add your own.

Today's subject: Luggage with Goddamn rollers on it.

Once upon a time, luggage was some heavy shit. When people traveled far, they used steamer trunks, or crates. When explorers fought their way through jungles, they did so with teams of bearers toting crates behind them. Dr. Livingstone even had a specially made air-cooled Vickers machine gun that packed down into a couple of crates, which were then carried by his bearers. Suitcases, smaller versions of trunks, were carried by hand, your own or hired ones. Be it slave laborer, bearer, sky cap or bellhop, luggage was lifted, and carried to its destination by the hands of men.

Then came the pilot and the stewardess. These arrogant, laconic, sunglassed weirdos and well-coiffed air sluts changed the face of luggage forever. For they were the first group who routinely used small suitcases with rollers on the bottom. Granted, there previously existed wheeled suitcases, but they were the province of the housewife, and the infirm. Good Americans carried normal suitcases, and smirked at those wheeled Samsonsites. It was the airheads who first started using bags small enough to fit carry-on luggage racks, that had telescoping handles and rollers. One could spy gaggles of these plane monkeys in every airport in the country, de-planed and off in search of a lay, a line, or liquor. And fat followed with them.

Like mold on cheese or Scientology through Hollywood, these small roller bags slowly spread into popular culture. First the Europe through the backdoor crowd discovered the small, wheeled bag. Then lawyers, mbas and other autistics began using them, to help them schlep their bullshit around. Today it seems every overweight American is rolling a little bag behind them, doubtless full of TV Guides, nachos, and the latest Oprah book.

Now that I'm on the Island, I have to contend with these worthless, bag-rolling ShitBirds each time I get on or off the ferry. They stagger along, taking mincing steps, their little wheeled bag slaloming behind them, like a disobediant vinyl child. Each of them takes up the space of two normal people, and by some strange synergy, the use of a wheeled bag automatically erases one's ability to walk a straight line, and takes ten points off one's IQ. By the time I make it on or off the ferry, I'm in a lather, and despairing of our future.

So to America I say this: let go of the wheeled bag's handle, and pick up a suitcase, briefcase, traincase, backpack, fanny pack, or purse if you must. I know It's hard to carry heavy stuff, but you do yourself no favors by always and forever avoiding any form of physical activity. For if you continue to avoid it, the day will come when you are incapable of it.

Long ago, we were fleet of foot, and strong. Small groups of men, using sharp rocks, pointy sticks and plenty of moxie, killed mammoth. There's a great and furious weirdness in the offing, and it's just around the corner. Do you want to face it as a sad sack of shit with a little bag with wheels on it, or as a man? The choice is yours. Fair warning though; keep yourself and your Goddamn wheeled bag the hell out of my way.

So, it's official

I am a fucking dork.

Did me some googling of the term "Spartan hoplite." I looked at the web pages, and then figured I'd check newsgroups while I was at it. I found posts from a variety of miniature gaming figurine groups, and many from a variety of science fiction and fantasy discussion groups, including ones devoted to Star Trek, Lord of the Rings, Deep Space Nine and Heinlein, Robert.

Yep, it's some pretty awe-inspiring company I keep.

Island

If we pool our money together, in about 20 years we might get close. Was playing around on the web and saw this. Kind of one of those fantasy, how cool would this be to own things. Enough room for everybody.

http://www.mlsnw.com/?uid=2125&g=/actions/details.dfs&Listing_Number=25047062

Flying Spaghetti Monster!

Surely everyone has joined the Pastafarians by now, but I feel it's worth documenting on The Vortex.

Wacky Japanese Sex Toys!

Need I say more?

I guess the world's not such a bad place,

if you can still buy a Mac 10 for three grand.

It's certainly no Thompson, but it doesn't cost twenty grand either.

'Course, it's all a moot point for those of us in the benighted state of Washington. Goddamnit.