The Heat Goes On

2008-06-05T20:04:00.001+01:00

Fred Phelps and John Gibson Have a Secret

2008-01-25T13:34:00.000+01:00

In the time following the announcement of Heath Ledger's death, Fred Phelps, leader of the notorious anti-gay Westboro Baptist Church, announced that his group would picket Ledger's funeral. Later, Fox News anchor John Gibson mocked Ledger's death, calling him a "weirdo" and saying "Well, he found out how to quit you."

These appear to be two unrelated cases of raging homophobia...or ARE THEY? I think I may have found what Phelps and Gibson are trying to hide:

This Bookstore Scene Written by Salvador Dali

2007-08-21T16:38:00.000+01:00

I just had the most surreal exchange of my life. The customer at the bookstore who asked these questions was completely sincere:

Customer: Are you going back to Egypt after you're done today?
Me: I beg your pardon?
Customer: Are you going back to Egypt?
Me: Uh, I've never been to Egypt, so it really wouldn't be going back...
Customer: Oh, I thought you were Egyptian.
Me: No, sir, I'm half Italian.
Customer: (beat) You're Eye-talian?!
Me: Yes, sir.
Customer: Ohh. (pause) Do you have any books on Catholicism?

I love people.

T-Sharts

2007-06-08T17:48:00.001+01:00

Coming Soon to an Internets Near You:

LOLeverything

2007-05-24T15:10:00.000+01:00

As anyone can tell you, I'm a huge fan of LOLcats, whose rise has been documented by Slate and blogger Anil Dash. Their pidgin English has now extended as far as the 23rd century, with this brilliantly funny adaptation of the Trek episode "The Trouble with Tribbles," and now the good folks at Fark have started an LOLpresidents thread. The Yalta one is a high point.

Here's my entry:

R.I.P. - the P stands for perpetually being sodomized by Teletubbies.

2007-05-17T04:18:00.000+01:00

Here's to Jerry Falwell, a beast so foul that the worms just might deign to dine on him.

God Bless You, Mr. Campbell

2007-05-16T14:15:00.000+01:00

Here and here are two commercials for Old Spice featuring the grooviest hero that ever was.

Little Kids' Thoughts on Mortality

2007-05-13T19:16:00.000+01:00

One of the guys at Boing Boing put up this Flickr set of his daughter's preschool class' pictorial responses to the question "What happens when people get old?" It's pretty poignant stuff.

Why Can't We Be Friends?

2007-05-11T17:50:00.000+01:00

Ladies and gentlemen, the least formidable ultimate weapon ever: the Love Star.

This'll Bust Some Blocks

2007-05-10T07:16:00.000+01:00

A Mahmoud Ahmadinejad/David Duke coproduction of a Leni Riefenstahl film. They'll never work in this town again.

Facebook Mischief

2007-05-01T21:32:00.000+01:00

So I found a fantastic group on Facebook called "Prophet Muhammad, the Greatest Leader of All Times." Naturally, I couldn't resist joining and adding a post suggesting that there may be a greater leader, but to my chagrin they took it down. So now, for the sake of other opinions' sanctity, I've taken a screenshot of my response today:

Conan O'Brien Hates My Homeland

2007-02-14T00:13:00.000+01:00

The complete list! Huzzah and kudos to Matt Monaco, from whose fantastic blog (see the new link at right) I blatantly stole the link.

R.E.M. on Sesame Street

2007-02-14T00:00:00.000+01:00

This is why R.E.M. will always be better than U2.

Asians Are Better Than Us at Everything

2007-02-13T18:48:00.000+01:00

I'm thinking about using this for the cover sheet of my next Gender, Disability and Film presentation.

For Relaxing Times, Make It Tommy Lee Jones Time

2007-01-29T18:33:00.000+01:00

And from the bringing-the-Japanese-and-Tommy-Lee-Jones-together department, here's a bit about a real-life TV ad for Suntory. The description of its plot:

Tommy Lee Jones [is] a space alien visiting earth and working at a Japanese host club. After a customer insults his appearance, Jones gets an extra “cool” host makeover. At the end of the commercial he declares this planet’s tanning salons to be amazing.

The Manos Strike Back

2007-01-29T17:57:00.000+01:00

Star Wars' space battles redone by hands.

Nauseated Gorn

2007-01-29T17:35:00.000+01:00

A little short movie that Vicky, Chris and I made yesternight.

Steve "Martyr" Martin

2007-01-24T16:19:00.000+01:00

That one dude from "Three Amigos" has written something for the New Yorker. Amen.

Superbird

2007-01-23T19:52:00.000+01:00

Here's a bird that can do anything. Pray that he doesn't make a deal with the giant squids.

$tar Trek

2007-01-07T23:13:00.000+01:00

The crew of the good starship Enterprise has recently sailed into the real final frontier: marketing. Here's a rather annoying ad and a far more glorious one.

Amen.

2007-01-02T07:46:00.001+01:00

The eight-legged ones are coming.

Science H. Logic!

2006-12-28T07:50:00.000+01:00

The ever-reliable Richard Dawkins has some words for a thermodynamics professor at Leeds University who thinks the world is 6,000 years old and that evolution violates the Second Law of Thermodynamics.

Putting Our Ears in the Uncanny Valley

2006-12-21T06:20:00.000+01:00

Here's the ever-trusty Mr. Malcolm Gladwell writing in the New Yorker about Platinum Blue, the firm whose software can mathematically predict a song's hit potential, and whether or not a similar enterprise can be launched for the cinema. Weeeeeird, man.

What I Did at Work Today

2006-12-08T17:22:00.000+01:00

The Tit, the Queen, and Creatures of Context

2006-12-08T15:52:00.000+01:00

Here's a neat little editorial about creatures adapting vocal patterns to their environment, from the tit up to Tony Blair. I've been using the words "brilliant" and "twat" (pronounced like "hat," not the Americanized "twot") quite a bit more since moving to London, so I can relate.

Mr. and Mrs. Claus

2006-12-06T23:04:00.000+01:00

Here are some lyrics I wrote for a Christmas song last year. I'll write some music when I get home then record it. For now, enjoy:

It was the night before one Christmas, and all throughout my house
I could hear a noise a-stirring, much louder than a mouse
I thought it was Saint Nicholas, so down the stairs I snuck
Imagine my surprise when I saw my parents fuck

CHORUS
Oh, Christmas time is here,
The birth of Christ above
I never would have guessed to see
My parents making love
I don't look to judge
And I don't look to blame
But I promise that I'll never, ever
See that couch the same.

For St. Nick I'd left some milk, and some cookies out to eat
But another pair of Jingle Balls were getting nice and beat
As I saw my father's hairy ass, I gagged and could taste bile
I never knew my parents were so into doggy-style

CHORUS/BREAK

And as I sing this Christmas song, I'm still in therapy
And I've not had an erection since 1993
And if there is a moral here, besides being annoyed
It's fuck my fucking parents and goddamn that Sigmund Freud!

CHORUS 2X

Hilarious Bible Verses

2006-12-06T23:03:00.000+01:00

My personal favorite is the one that ends with "and the dung came out."

Space Is the Place (Episode I - The Emcee Strikes Back)

2006-12-06T02:23:00.000+01:00

Here are the lyrics for the new rap song from Rabbits' Feet and Microfilms.

Space Is The Place (Episode I - The Emcee Strikes Back)

A long time ago, from a galaxy far, far away, a man fell to the earth and this is what he had to say

3,720 to one
You can kiss my asteroid pucker up son
Funky like the Meters walk a cissy strut
I eat too much because I’m Jabba the Hutt

Eating yummy snails like I'm a Parisian
Here goes nothing Lando Calrissian
Billy Dee Williams Colt 45
Knocking back 40s cos it works every time

R U drunk too I would like to knows
Got double vision I think I see three o those
Once you go Wookiee there’s no other nookie
So give that big hairy beast a chocolate cookie

I've got the G-forces that are in your face
Make no mistake son space is the place
Stratosphere gone baby fade to black
Episode I the emcee strikes back

TK 421 why aren’t you at your post
Sorry dad I'm jamming to the host with the most
Why step to me sonny don’t you even bother
My name is J-son but I am your father

I’m so high that my city’s in the clouds
My eyelids are low and my bass is real loud
Beats like the Death Star ultimate weapon
Listen up here Greedo don’t you be steppin’

Blaster at my side a killer I’m the best
Fry your sorry ass and say I'm sorry about the mess
Flipping on my lightsaber chopping up younglings
Deep-frying Jedi like they was onion rings

I've got the G-forces that are in your face
Make no mistake, son, space is the place
Stratosphere gone, baby, fade to black
Episode I the emcee strikes back

Roger roger
Roger roger

Rebellion, star wars I declare
An empire falls cos of fuzzy wuzzy bears
Sorry there Georgie Boy you cold suck
Howard the Duck? What the fuck

Exsqueeze me! Yippee! Lucas one-liners
Anakin and Luke Skywalker were whiners
One grabbed his sister and swapped some spit
The other one knocked up the Garden State chick

Beats by demand the battle of the planets
Vader couldn't do it any better if he'd planned it
Princess Leia never ever wore a bra
This is going out to my man Sun Ra

Locking S-foils in attack position
Clairvoyant, baby, got the Force intuition
Shields still up, fleet’s getting zapped
Admiral Ackbar- it’s a trap

Strap your ass in and hold onto your face
We’re gonna make the jump into hyperspace

VERY Early Talking Heads Video

2006-12-04T14:51:00.000+01:00

The band playing "Psycho Killer" at CBGBs. It's before Jerry Harrison joined the band. I love YouTube.

The Gunner

2006-11-30T16:11:00.000+01:00

Vader must be on his period again, Tim Martins grumbled to himself. There's no other explanation for this. Why else would we be chasing some bullshit little Rebel Blockade Runner through the boondies? It's gotta be that Rebel-chasin' time of the month.

Tim had never liked his job as a Star Destroyer gunner. At the Imperial Academy, he had trained to be a TIE Fighter pilot, but on his first training mission, he'd backed his ship into Grand Moff Freidberg's shuttle, guaranteeing him a spot on one of the Starfleet's lower rungs. Before his deployment to his current Star Destroyer, he had also received an official reprimand for accusing his demotion as being a result of "Freidberg having his period."

His laser blasts continued to miss the runaway spaceship. Periods. Looli must have been on her period, the lying bitch...

On his recent return home for shore leave, Tim had found his wife Looli in bed, enjoying a post-coital cuddle with Mryxaptlk, the Wookiee milkman.

"What the FUCK?!" he'd screamed.

"You know what they say, Timmy," Looli said, rolling a fat Sullustan joint. "Once you go Wookiee, there's no other nookie. I mean, you never had much respect for me as a woman, did you?"

"What are you talking about, you stupid twat?"

She licked the rolling paper. "See what I mean?" she said, turning to Mrxaptlk.

He took a drag of his cigarette. "Rawrrawr," he replied.

Tim glared at his wife's hairy lover. "What, then? What's he got that I haven't got?"

"Grmph," Mryxaptlk grumbled. He pulled the covers down, revealing his crotch.

Timothy gulped. "Oh," he said.

"Sorry, Timothy," Looli said, lighting up the dank Sullustan herb. "Looks like you should just let the Wookiee win."

I always let the other guy win, he now thought, his absence of hits on the enemy ship uninterrupted. That's why I'm in this asswipe turbolaser turret gig in the first place. They could've at least put me on a Super Star Destroyer. Mom always said that I'm Super. Before that rancor bit her head off, anyway.

He turned to Ensign Piett. "Hey, Penis, what planet is that down there again?"

"Tatooine. Also, don't call me Penis, Timothy."

Wah wah wah. That Piett's got no sense of humor- always so high-strung, like he's going to be a Captain or an Admiral someday. Also, what kind of bullshit name is Tatooine? More planets should have sensible names, like back home on Zawikkkitron-Beta 12C.

A huge explosion erupted on the Blockade Runner's dorsal side. "Good shot, Piett!" Lieutenant Archibald rejoined. "You shut down their main reactor!"

Whoop dee doo, Timothy thought as the Star Destroyer reeled in the Blockade Runner with its tractor beam. I'm like a million times better at shooting than ol' Penis. I'm just off my game today cos of Looli and her hysterical girl nonsense. More people should listen to me. I've got opinio-

Three Rebel escape pods flew into sight, fleeing the captured ship in the Star Destroyer's cargo bay and making a desperate dash for the planet surface. "Oh, SHIT!" Timothy shouted, firing dozens of shots, none of which hit anything. "Dammit!" he whined. "Lieutenant, my scope's not working!"

Piett rolled his eyes, looked into his sights, and fired three shots, vaporizing all three pods. "Rebel scum," he said.

Tim's face soured. Ooh, there goes Mr. Fancypants again. Everybody here thinks they're so smart. Wait'll I tell them my transfer request to the Death Star went through. Won't they be jealous when I leave next week? They'll still be out here, and I'll be safe and sound aboard the ultimate weapon! Nobody can get me there!

Suddenly, a lone escape pod blasted its way into view. Tim gasped and brought his laser to bear. "There goes another one!"

"Hold your fire," the Lieutenant replied. "There aren't any life forms aboard. It must have short-circuited."

But Tim had a bad feeling about this one. He furrowed his brow, then looked through his cannon's scope, zooming all the way in. He scrutinized the pod, then recoiled in shock; through the pod's rear window, a protocol droid and an R2 unit were staring back at him! He whirled around. "But sir-"

"For Christ's sake, gunner, just relax," the exasperated Lieutenant admonished him. "What difference does it make if one measly escape pod gets away?"

Piett grinned and followed up on the Lieutenant's rebuff. "Yea, Timothy. What's gonna happen? Is the Death Star gonna blow up or something?"

"Yea!" the Lieutenant giggled, unable to resist joining in. "You'd better blow it up, Timmy, or else the entire Empire might fall!"

Piett and the Lieutenant exchanged a high-five, and all the turbolasers' crew laughed hysterically. Tim's face went red and he turned away. They always laugh at me, he fumed. Well, they'll see. One day I'll be right.

ATTN: Mel Gibson

2006-11-25T21:51:00.000+01:00

So I went to the shop to buy some beer earlier and saw a tabloid there called the Daily Star with the headline "THE SECRET AGONY OF THE SPICE GIRLS." I immediately thought of a better cover:

A Charlie Brown Kwanzaa

2006-11-25T20:29:00.000+01:00

Watch this and kiss another part of your childhood goodbye.

Vertigo

2006-11-24T02:25:00.000+01:00

A couple people have requested that I put the lyrics to "Vertigo" (not the ass U2 record, but my ass hip-hop song) online. Here they are:

Vertigo

Room’s gettin hazy, party’s gettin crazy, everybody get busy, go psycho

Well, my name is J-Son and I’m the king of rock
I’m settin’ you free like my name’s John Locke
Herbie Hancock on the mic, I rock it
Cary Grant cool and I’m hot like the pocket

Out of the races and onto the tracks
Ridin’ on the groove train, those the facts
So ripe it’s rotten so funky it’s fresh
This train is headin’ north by northwest

Cos I am the man who knew too much
I’m cuttin’ all the corners and ridin’ on the clutch
GK Records, fresh bran muffins
Rabbits' feet, microfilms, all the MacGuffins

When I take this mic, you might get shocked
Post hoc ergo propter hoc
Lemmings all dancin’ 'til they get cream-crackered
Takin' out gophers like my name's Carl Spackler

CHORUS
I’ve got the flow, don’t’cha know?
Here we go, vertigo
Movin’ fast, ridin’ low
Here we go, vertigo
The ladies and the holy joes
Here we go, vertigo
Feel the funk head to toe
Here we go, vertigo

I’m like Jesus, my clothes is swaddled
Savior of the party, I’m the king of twaddle
Goin’ down smooth like a bitter lemon Schweppes
Groovin’ all night, bustin’ 39 steps

Bumpin' up the tempo speedin' up the pitch
Master of suspense, I’m a son of a Hitch
I’m too skinny and my pa was too fat
Eatin’ Baby Ruths while he stared at Kim Novak

All the saboteurs, mystery lodgers
Runnin' from the law like Thornhill Roger
Killing off suckas no shadow of a doubt
1 2 3 4 kick a fucker out

It’s uno, dos, tres, y cuatro
Songs are for kids- silly Bono
If you goin’ to a place called Vertigo
Then learn to fuckin’ speak Spanish, yo

CHORUS

I got the bass- goes bump, bump
Shake, shake, shake your rump, rump
I got the bass- goes bump, bump
Shake, shake, shake your rump- break

Listen to the sound of the city/The sounds of science

I'm J-Son and I'm amorous Like Bowie I am glamorous
A Viking, I be spammin' this I'm kickin' out the jams in this
Party people happy, nobody despondent
Trottin' round the globe I'm a foreign correspondent

Burnin' down the house tearin' down the curtain
Haircut’s correct like my name’s Tim Burton
I bet when you stepped, you never expected this
Send your ass packin' like your name was Telemachus

My rhymes is esoteric, don't'cha get hysteric
I'm epic and Homeric but my beats is still numeric
Put my record on the beats'll be rockin' ya
God in the machine y'all, deus ex machina

I’m tellin’ you, sucka, you've got the wrong man
Droppin' hot rhymes and I'm drinkin' Hot Damn
If beats could kill, I’d be guilty of murder
Puttin’ fresh cheese on your soggy hamburger

CHORUS

George Kaplan Records, y’all, the fresh shit

The Beastie Boys' Children's Book

2006-11-20T02:02:00.000+01:00

Enough said.

STONEHENGE DESTROYED

2006-11-20T00:33:00.000+01:00

It was supposed to be an ordinary visit. I barely escaped with my life.

Noah Explained?

2006-11-18T21:56:00.000+01:00

Courtesy of that other Jason (Kottke), here's a New York Times story about a recently-discovered crater deep below the surface of the Indian Ocean; it's 18 miles wide and produced a tsunami powerful enough to kill 1/4 of the world's population. Kickass.

2006-11-16T00:48:00.000+01:00

There's nothing in the world that scares me more than groups of Asians.

Thus, imagine my horror when I found myself in a room filled wall-to-wall with them. I didn't know what that "studying abroad in China" form meant when I filled it out- if I'd known it had meant throwing myself into a den of Asians I would've told them to shove that form where the Asian sun don't shine.

I began sweating profusely. I furtively glanced around; the Asians had me completely surrounded. I avoided drawing the attention of their beady Asian eyes. Some wizenly old Asian was at the front of the room, gesticulating madly and talking Asian to all the Asians, some of whom nodded their heads in some form of Asian acknowledgment. My god, I thought; it's a fucking Asian propaganda meeting. There's a new Asian threat. I must report back to the CIA*!

Wiping the sweat from my brow, I slowly rose and left the Asian cadre, and to my credit none of the Asians pursued me. When I emerged onto the street, I grabbed the first non-Asian passerby I saw and screamed "My God, man, I'm on a mission of impossible importance. I must report back to the Security Council at once. What must I do?"

Proving that innocent looks can conceal nefarious motives, the passerby replied "You look like an American student. You do realize that you're in China, right?"

Lord God Almighty Jesus in heaven- he was onto me. I looked deep into his eyes and my heart stopped. I saw through his cunning Asian ruse. Through a haze of almost uncontrollable adrenaline, I asked "Are you...ASIAN?"

The reply jolted me to the essence of my being. "Well, my father was from Wisconsin, but my mother's from Beijing. So yes, I suppose."

The bile volcanically rose through my esophagus, spurred on by the Asian stimuli. It wouldn't be long now before the Asian hives began to break out all over my skin.

The Asians had left me no choice. I pushed the emergency button on my utility belt, beamed myself up to my space-ship and blasted off into the Asianless void. In the infinite cosmos I would find security and an Asian-free haven.

EPILOGUE

I'm doomed. My space-ship has crashed on the remote planet Asia Minor. With no communications equipment left functioning, I'm forever trapped on this planet of the Asians. I cursed myself- if only that guy at Jiffy Lube had checked my space-ship's Navitron, none of this would have happened. Then again, the Navitron was Asian-manufactured. Also, the Jiffy Lube guy was an Asian. Fook.

*CIA = Center of Intelligence about Asians

Air Post-Colonial Travel Guide.

2006-11-14T17:23:00.000+01:00

Hello and welcome aboard Air Post-Colonial! We hope you enjoy your personal copy of our Travel Guide, designed to keep conscientious consumers just like you as happy, comfortable, and carefree as possible as you journey to one of our African destinations.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

WHERE TO SHOP: DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC OF THE CONGO
They’re massacring, burning, slashing, and destroying prices on goods and services in Congo, where special sale offers can be found across the board. For you nervous nellies, you can commission a Congolese soldier escort for $9.99 a day (an additional $5 charge applies if the soldier has reached puberty). Prices are so low that things are on the verge of chaos. No, seriously
Special: WOMEN'S FASHION
Jewelry
Makeup
Genital Mutilation
Hair Tips
SPECIAL FEATURE - Pucci Designer Full-Body Veils: This season, don't be caught without one. Or else

WHERE TO EAT: COULIBRI RESTAURANT
In Niger, the friendly locals are dying to see you. At Coulibri, enjoy the finest three-course meals while watching the local children play their favorite games, like Milk and Flour Chase and Collect the Flies

WHERE TO STAY: THE PLAZA IDI AMIN
Formerly the Nile Mansions Hotel, the deals at this hotel in Kampala, Uganda's capital, are killer

INTERVIEW: Leonard Nimoy
“I guess when I went to Sierra Leone for that book-signing, I should’ve remembered that the life expectancy is only forty years before I wrote ‘Live long and prosper.’ No big deal, though- there was only a 29.6% chance they could read anyway!” Mr. Spock himself tells hilarious anecdotes from his travelogue-promotion tour

BUSINESS NEWS
HIV levels are at record highs in Botswana, along with malaria, bacterial diarrhea, hepatitis A, and typhoid fever. Real estate prices are cheaper than ever

TRAVEL TIPS
Useful Phrases - Local translations of everyday sayings like "Stop! I can pay you whatever you want!" and "No, please, don't shoot!"
SPECIAL FEATURE - A Letter from the Chairman of Air Post-Colonial: CEO Conrad Joseph-Griffith responds to the U.S. Surgeon General and Secretary of State's joint letter advising travelers to Africa (entitled "Don't Go to Africa")

Thanks for flying Air Post-Colonial! Don't forget to enjoy your complimentary Tutsi Roll Pops- they're genocidally delicious!

Air Post-Colonial. Bringing you successful vacations in failed states for less.

Coming Soon

2006-11-14T02:09:00.000+01:00

Ready or not, here I come.

Robot Jokes

2006-11-13T13:55:00.000+01:00

From McSweeney's Internet Tendency. Read them and laugh...before we're all destroyed.

The media will always cover what matters. ALWAYS.

2006-11-09T11:52:00.000+01:00

Here's a post about the BIG HUGE EVIL JOHN KERRY COMMENTS. Don't get me wrong- what Kerry said was quite blithe and stupid, but so too was its prioritization (not sure if that's a word) in the mainstream news media. I'm reminded of the way the networks covered Bill Clinton's interview on Fox News, to which I'd post a link to the YouTube video of The Daily Show's coverage- oh wait, Comedy Central took all their videos down. Bloodsuckers.

A Newly Found Poetic Classic

2006-11-09T10:05:00.000+01:00

yeti yeti yeti
yetis like spaghettis
pastas, not the O's
and yetis like their hoes

-Maya Angelou

Richard Dawkins Has a Posse

2006-11-07T14:33:00.000+01:00

Here's a pretty sweet graphic of one of my new heroes, Richard Dawkins. His new book, The God Delusion, bears a recommendation from musical hero Brian Eno (who says the book is ". . . an invitation to explore an exhilarating new view of what it means to be human and alive now. . . I see this as a book for a new millennium, one in which we may be released from lives dominated by the supernatural and the metaphysical.") and is dedicated to literary hero Douglas Adams, a beautiful quote from whom serves as the book's epigraph: "Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?"

A New Entry from Cinema's Next Great Auteur

2006-11-06T03:24:00.000+01:00

Here's a short movie written and directed by one Ms. Michelle Mogavero. Next to her, Catherine Hardwicke is just someone who fucked James Cameron, Sally Potter is a raging bull-dyke, and Nora Ephron is...well, Nora Ephron.

Why Darren Aronofsky Is Kooler than Jesus

2006-11-06T02:51:00.000+01:00

Going to the cinema is like Sunday mass for me, just without the sheer repetitious boredom and desire to be at home flossing. Movies offer a look beyond what we know or a new way of understanding what we know; a great movie does both.

Which brings us to Darren Aronofsky. His second feature, "Requiem for a Dream," is his more popular one (at least, as popular as a movie about heroin addiction whose characters wind up completely insane, as prostitutes, or dismembered can be), but his first, a story about finding a mathematical pattern in the stock market and the Tanakh called "Pi," was so shocking and so harrowing that my hands shook for five or ten minutes after I finished seeing it for the first time.

His new movie, "The Fountain," sounds equally amazing; it's a love story about a man trying to save his dying wife, a triplicate narrative that spans 1,000 years (with sequences in the time of the Mayans, the present, and 500 years in the future). Here's an article from Wired News about how Aronofsky created the effects- it sounds unlike any other process I've heard of, as innovative as Kubrick shooting chemical reactions for "2001" or Douglas Trumbull's effects in "Close Encounters" and "Blade Runner" or Lucas' team inventing motion control to shoot the spaceships in "Star Wars." Get ready for cinematic Rapture- we're about to see something unlike anything we've seen before.

On a related note, here's a piece in the Guardian by author Paul Auster about the particularly wonderful art of storytelling.

Stop Making Sense

2006-11-03T17:26:00.000+01:00

David Byrne is one of my favorite people. He makes really wonderful music (see "My Life in the Bush of Ghosts," which he made with Brian Eno, and his entire career with the Talking Heads- he wrote my favorite song, "This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)") and he sees something special in everyday objects like chairs and Microsoft PowerPoint, turning them into art forms. All in all, a neat guy.

Anyway, here's a journal post from his site where he makes an interesting point: that irrational beliefs and rational scientific advancement might be more closely related than you'd think.

Phony Beatlemania

2006-11-03T11:49:00.000+01:00

The following is excerpted from a Guardian interview with Mick Jones and Paul Simonon of the Clash, and for me, it sums up everything that made the band great. Maybe they really were the only band that mattered.

Talk turns to 1977, the B-side of their debut single White Riot. As statements of cocky intent go, it still sounds startling, matching a musical scorched-earth policy - "No Elvis, Beatles or the Rolling Stones!" - to what sounds like a call to immediate armed revolution. Jones claims the lyrics have been misinterpreted, and the song is a little more altrusistic than it seems ("the 'Sten guns in Knightsbridge' thing wasn't like we had Sten guns in Knightsbridge, it was like, we're concerned about that kind of thing, it was around the time of the Spaghetti House siege"), but yes, he concedes, it would be nice if someone wrote something as iconoclastic as that today. "They could say, no U2, Jay-Z or Beyoncé in 2007," he chuckles, then suddenly looks a bit folorn. "But it's never going to happen, is it? I don't think things mean as much now. It's been so reduced now to the sliver of the end of a boiled sweet. They've done such a job on us, no one's ever going to be able to think like that any more. But you can't wait around, you've gotta do something. But the thing is" - his voice takes on a slightly conspiratorial tone - "if you have lunch, you can't do it. You've got to do it instead of having lunch. If you say, let's have lunch, you'll talk about it and you'll never do it." He takes a slurp of his bloody mary. "We used to just do it."

A brief silence is broken by a laconic voice. "Mick," says Simonon softly, "we couldn't afford lunch."

Some Thoughts on Stephen Hunter

2006-10-26T11:33:00.000+01:00

Who is Stephen Hunter?

From 1971-1996 he was a film critic at the Baltimore Sun (every critic's dream) and since that year he's written for the Washington Post. As liberal as that paper is accused of being by fair-and-balanced types like Bill O'Reilly and John Gibson, one can find a good, patriotic, America-loving conservative in the chief of its film department. He's actually expressed admiration for Dick Cheney's "samurai blankness" and, on the occasion of Cheney's famous hunting accident, wrote that "Some may say of Cheney: He was really unlucky." Unlucky?! What about the poor fucker Cheney blasted with a shotgun?!

ANYWAY, about two months ago Hunter wrote an article about an essential quality he felt lacking in modern-day cinematic protagonists: heroism, or more specifically masculine heroism. Hunter claims that stars like Ben Affleck or Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow are "too pretty." Hunter lionizes characters like John Wayne's hero in "The Searchers," a loner whose irrational bloodlust for the In'juns drives him to search for a kidnapped white girl. Naturally, in the end, he reneges on his claim that it's better for her to die than be an Indian, instead hugging her and telling her to come home in a screenplay maneuver whose narrative logic isn't unlike that found in "Snakes on a Plane." After all, if Wayne had carried out has masculine mission to assert white goodness over Indian otherness, how could audiences sympathize with him?

"Where have all the action heroes gone?," Hunter asks. "They certainly haven't gone to be soldiers; no, they've gone to be sensitive, not so much in the touchy-feely way, but in that way that strikes at their essence. They no longer dominate." He later writes that "Only a few boys seem to have the man-junk that can get them through the heavy lifting of a hero's role."

So Hunter's ideal action hero is a dominant male with huge balls. Well, forgive me for calling an Expert Well-Paid Well-Published Well-Polished FILM CRITIC an ignoramus, but perhaps he's forgetting about a character who's become as iconic as Indiana Jones over the past thirty years: Ripley, Sigourney Weaver's protagonist in the "Alien" films. I defy anyone to name me a more spine-tingling, get-ready-for-some-ass-kicking moment than Ripley walking out in her power-loader to face the Alien Queen and spitting out "Get away from her, you BITCH!" with such vitriol and conviction that the Academy Award nominated Weaver for Best Actress for her performance. Let's also not forget Uma Thurman's Bride in the "Kill Bill" movies. Besides, it seems that successful action films these days (do they exist anymore?) are less and less about one-person tour de forces like Indy, Ripley, or John "Die Hard" McClane. One might say that the last action hero was Mel Gibson's Martin Riggs in the "Lethal Weapon" movies, a man pushed to the edge of insanity- and watching those movies now, one wonders just how much acting Gibson had to do.

Back to Hunter. His non-fiction book is called "Violent Screen: A Critic's 13 Years on the Front Lines of Movie Mayhem." The front lines of movie mayhem? You're telling me that your idea of a battlefield involves sitting in cinemas, seeing movies for free and writing asinine reviews about them, all the while developing a quite impressive double chin? Is being a movie reviewer as dangerous as facing down Charlie?

Film criticism shouldn't be viewed as some kind of battlefield with its combatants seeking out to prove themselves. It should be a community of devotees to the art of cinema who love, understand, and know the movies and wish to share that love, understanding, and knowledge with a larger audience. A man whose delusions of grandeur con him into the belief that he is a rootin' tootin' gun-totin' cowboy has as little place in that arena as he would as President of the United States (whoops). Surely Hunter's article is not the work of someone forcing his own petty sexual insecurities onto Washington Post readers unfortunate enough to read his critical Holocausts, filled with Hunter's signature bombastic, arrogant prose. He's almost like the character played by his fellow Stephen, Colbert- but without the awareness that he is a self-mythologizing prick.

So who is Stephen Hunter? I'll tell you: Stephen Hunter is someone who deserves to DIE.

Fat Woman Falls Down Hole

2006-10-24T10:25:00.000+01:00

Courtesy of Peter Bradshaw of the Guardian, here's a video that defies belief. Be ready to piss thy pants.

The Metaphysics of Mayonnaise

2006-10-22T17:30:00.000+01:00

I was scrounging around looking for something I could put on my overcooked hot dog (note to self: get that damn microwave fixed, it's caught fire three times in the last two days), and reached past the ketchup, mustard, relish, onions, and Jesus' Official Hot Dog Sauce for the finest condiment known to mankind: mayonnaise. I slathered about four or five tablespoons' worth onto the small, stale bun then began to close the mayonnaise jar when something on the label caught my eye. In between the words "Hellmann's" and "mayonnaise," which had been printed in the same font, was the italicized, yellow-colored word "REAL."

Hmm, I wondered. Hellmann's REAL Mayonnaise. Just what is it that makes this particular mayonnaise more 'real' than other kinds? What is "real," anyway?

Realizing that there are experts on what's "real" and what's not, I immediately strapped on my jet-pack and rocketed over to Oxford's department of philosophy for answers. After landing and plucking the feathers remaining in my teeth from that goose I collided with I asked Regent Professor Edward William Harry Tottington Victoria Wellingtonkingshire IV, esq. for an answer to this query, which burned through my head like a poorly-tiled space shuttle.

"Professor," I screamed, "Just what makes mayonnaise 'real?'"

He stifled an aneurysm brought on by the incredible intellectual weight of this question, then replied, "Well, Son, there are many possible answers."

Hmm, he called me Son, I thought. I hadn't recognized the paternal link but hey, this guy's a Professor; he must know what he's talking about.

"What are they, Dad?" I replied.

"It depends on which school of thought you choose to pursue. After all, as Descartes said, 'I eat mayonnaise, therefore I am,' thus explaining mayonnaise's importance in French cuisine and why the French are assholes, but conversely one might take the Nietzschean approach of 'The only true stable emulsion of vegetable oil and egg yolk died on the Cross.'"

Just then the doors to the hall burst open and several heavily armed men surrounded us. "Don't move! You're surrounded by the Secret Sauce police!"

"My god, I thought you people were a myth purported by Tabasco as a fear campaign against benign sandwich toppings!" Wellingtonkingshire squealed in terror, violently shitting his pants.

"Our existence has been kept secret by all the manufacturers of spicy sauces. How else would we keep people hot under the collar?"

An idea hit me like a glob of mustard plopping on a clean t-shirt. "Professor! Hold on to me!" Wellingtonkingshire complied, and I released all of the fuel-synthesized mayo from my jet pack and dropped the cigar that Wellingtonkingshire had most conveniently been smoking onto the ground, incinerating the Secret Sauce agents and the whole of the Oxford campus.

Wellingtonkingshire and I were married two weeks later and, using the royalties given us as spokesmen for Hellmann's, bought a chateau in Nice where scantily-clad Greek boys feed us grapes covered in mayonnaise. One day, the ghost of Socrates stopped by, and we asked him "Socrates, just what makes Hellmann's mayonnaise 'real?'"

He sampled some mayonnaise, pondered for a second, and replied "They make it with eggs instead of margarine-based products. Also, it's fuckin' tasty, man."

Gettysburg Address - The Powerpoint Version

2006-10-20T14:39:00.000+01:00

David Byrne loves Powerpoint, and looking at something like this makes it clear why.

More Human Than Human

2006-10-20T11:21:00.000+01:00

Courtesy of Sehar, here's a really fascinating article from the New York Times about Image Metric, a company whose software can duplicate human faces and facial expression perfectly. We're at a point in history when technology is becoming so advanced that we're wading into Philip K. Dick territory. Is Image Metric our Tyrell Corporation? Wouldn't a good word for these computer-generated performers be 'replicant?'

Some Thoughts on Sienna Miller

2006-10-13T17:21:00.000+01:00

Who is Sienna Miller?

She's an actress, I think. I know she's blonde and had seen her name on the covers of highbrow publications like In Touch Weekly and Us, which was all I really needed to know. Then my friend Maura, a Pittsburgh native, told me about an interview that Miller, who's presently shooting a movie called "The Mysteries of Pittsburgh" in the titular city, gave to Rolling Stone. This quote is excerpted from that interview:

"Can you believe this is my life? Will you pity me when you're back in your funky New York apartment and I'm still in Pittsburgh? I need to get more glamorous films and stop with my indie year."

I visited Pittsburgh for the first time last summer and loved it, so after reading Miller's quote I went on the Interweb to find the answer to my slightly modified question: "Who the FUCK is Sienna Miller?!" I turned up the following points:

A) The only movie that Miller has done of any note is the shit remake of Alfie with Jude Law.
B) Miller used to fuck Law on a regular basis, surely launching her into the public sphere. Law wisely dumped her; perhaps she broke down crying while still in bed with Law and said "I could be fucking Orlando Bloom, Johnny Depp, or Clive Owen! Can you believe this is my life?!"
C) Sienna Miller is a bitch. Not only that, she issued an apology for her remarks. As Karl Rove would put it, this makes her a flip-flopping bitch.

QUICK! Somebody call the In Dire Need of a Savior hotline to Bono and tell him that the revenue from his Red iPods must be redirected to the Save Sienna Miller from Mild Boredom Fund! Fuck you, starving disease-riddled African children; you are not worthy of the pity of those with funky* domiciles! Obviously, Sienna Miller's glamour is more important than your well-being; compared to you, Sienna Miller has the WORST LIFE IN THE WORLD! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT MAKING MOVIES ON LOCATION IS HER LIFE?!?!?!?

So who is Sienna Miller? I'll tell you: she is someone who deserves to DIE.

*What does this even mean? Did James Brown do the plumbing?

1950s Print Advertising

2006-10-13T13:24:00.000+01:00

Courtesy of that source of all things good, Boing Boing, here's a website called Plan 59 with a host of classic and weird old advertisements.

Mark Foley and Me

2006-10-12T10:15:00.000+01:00

This makes two things he and I have in common.

Terry Jones of Monty Python on George W. Bush

2006-10-11T12:52:00.000+01:00

Terry Jones writes a letter of congratulations to the President on his acceptance to the international league of despots.

The public and freedom of the press

2006-10-11T12:24:00.000+01:00

Here's a really good editorial from the Guardian about Anna Politkovskaya, the murdered Russian journalist and vocal critic of the Putin administration.

Bowing at the Altar of Captain Kirk

2006-10-10T13:44:00.000+01:00

“For who is greater, he who sits at the table, or he who serves? Is it not he who sits at the table? Yet I am among you as the One who serves.” –Jesus Christ, the book of Luke

“Don’t grieve, Admiral. It is logical. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.” –Mr. Spock, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan

I used to be a recovering Catholic; now I'm a recovering Trekkie.

Catholicism was something I was born into, like nobility or crack addiction. Every Sunday morning when I was younger, my family and I used to go to church, where I’d quietly nosh on the Cheerios my mom always brought in Ziploc bags and patiently wait for the service to end. But then, every Sunday night, we would go from church to my grandparents’ house for dinner, and at 7 o'clock I'd always run downstairs and turn on the T.V. There I would sit enraptured for the next hour, mesmerized by the adventures of the gallant crew of the starship Enterprise on Star Trek: The Next Generation.

I grew up hooked. Just as any priest worth his salt can perfectly dictate key Scriptural passages from memory, I could (and still can) recite bits of dialogue and technical minutiae from the Star Trek universe. For example, did you know that a Galaxy-class starship carries a crew complement of 1,012 people and has a maximum speed of warp factor 9.2?

Paraphrasing Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, the correct answer is: who gives a shit? Star Trek was not about its technobabble, most of which existed out of plot contrivance anyway. My obsessive behavior towards Trek and all its lore and details was what could generally be referred to as ‘weird,’ but it certainly wasn’t unique. There are Trekkies all over the place, enough that what was a cancelled NBC series has become one of the biggest entertainment juggernauts in modern times. A search for “Star Trek” on amazon.com turns up no less than 15,551 books, to say nothing of dishware, clothing, and a range of other merchandise that would give Elvis’ apparatus a run for its money. At the Las Vegas Hilton, there’s an attraction called Star Trek: The Experience where Klingons serve Romulan ale and visitors can take pictures sitting on the Enterprise’s bridge. One Trekkie just paid $500,000 at an auction for the model of the Enterprise that ILM used for The Next Generation (which gave me a bit of relative comfort about how much money I’ve spent on Trek merchandise over the years, but not that much). There’s even a Trek Wikipedia site called Memory Alpha. Trekkies are completely and full-heartedly devoted to their future universe; they want to explore the final frontier, to boldly go where no man has gone before, and so they watch Star Trek ritualistically. There’s a moral code to be found in Trek, too, in the form of the Prime Directive and IDIC, which I’ll discuss later. Trekkies even have their own holy land of sorts: the Star Trek convention, to which Trekkies make pilgrimages as though it were Jerusalem or Mecca.

Hmm- a large, powerful community of loving devotees to a supernatural work. It almost sounds like…a religion.

Now, bear with me here. Religion can be defined a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs. Granted what I’ve already established, don’t Trekkies fulfill this definition? There are even savior figures in Trek. Jesus Christ sacrificed himself to save humanity; Spock and Data, probably the two most popular characters in Trek, both died to save their friends. Besides, the elevation of a science-fiction entertainment to the status of holy text with faithful followers isn’t far-fetched; on the 2001 U.K. census, 390,127 respondents listed their religion as “Jedi.” If some equally mystical group to those lightsaber-wielding Knights were to be found in the Trek universe, then the old rivalry between Star Trek and Star Wars fans might’ve taken on the aspects of jihad.

Most people see Star Trek as a television and movie franchise, but for Trekkies, it’s something much more; it’s something to believe in.

The expression of the Trekkie religion can seem pretty goofy. Remember the Whitewater trial? Barbara Adams, one of the alternate jurors, wore a red Starfleet uniform to several court sessions. When CNN asked her why, she replied: "I always wear my uniform to formal occasions." Obviously, what Adams wore wasn’t really a uniform; it was a costume worn by actors pretending they’re flying through space hundreds of years in the future. But Adams’ answer as to why she liked Star Trek enough to wear one of its uniforms to a serious legal hearing is much more significant: she said that Trek is an alternative to “mindless television” that promotes inclusion, tolerance, peace and faith in humankind.

Yes! Adams summed up what Trek is all about; it’s not about warp speed or phasers or “aliens” that all speak English and look like humans wearing dodgy television-budget makeup; it’s about the humanist values that brought mankind into the 23rd century. Trek espouses two central philosophies: Starfleet’s General Order 1, better known as the Prime Directive, and the Vulcan concept of Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations, or IDIC. The Prime Directive states that under no circumstances can a Starfleet officer interfere with the development of any culture. This regulation acknowledges that human judgment is all too fallible and limited when compared to the natural development of the cosmos, and so Starfleet officers are required to allow cultures to develop on their own free of contamination, sacrificing their own lives for that preservation if necessary. IDIC is a similarly broad-thinking idea, a celebration of the unknowable kaleidoscope of variables in the universe. Respect for other peoples and awe at the universe- what wonderfully human ideals. Thus, even the most extreme Trekkies are harmless and much less annoying than certain other religious freaks. I guarantee you that a Trekkie would never make serious claims about a Teletubby’s homosexuality or scream at Matt Lauer about the dangers of psychiatry.

Star Trek’s forward-thinking attitude is inspiring, and it’s touched everyone from people like Barbara Adams to my own father. With the intention of being an astronaut, my dad joined the Air Force; he later launched experimental sounding rockets in White Sands, and now, he works at an aerospace engineering firm where he helps put advanced equipment into space and teaches engineering courses. And back in 1967, when he was 21, he always tuned in to NBC and intently watched Star Trek. It was the same set I’d wind up watching The Next Generation on- my dad beat me to it by 25 years.

In fact, one might be surprised to find out who some famous Trekkies are. Stephen Hawking, probably the smartest man in the world, loves Trek so much that he once played himself in an episode of The Next Generation. Whoopi Goldberg also had a recurring role on that show, but her relationship with Trek is more illustrative of how progressive and inspiring it is. When Goldberg watched the original show in the late sixties, she saw the character of Uhura, a bridge officer on the Enterprise and a black woman, she realized that there were possibilities for African-American actresses other than the secondary roles to which they were usually relegated and so sought a career as an actress herself. The actress who played Uhura, Nichelle Nichols, was considering leaving the show after the first season, but by chance she ran into a Trek fan who asked her to stay on because she was a vital role model for young American black women; after that meeting, Nichols decided to stay on. The fan was Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

At this point, it’s fair to point out that the difference between most major religions and love for Star Trek is that religion usually deals with the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, especially when considered as the creation of a superhuman agency or agencies. The idea of a creator has taken on many expressions throughout human history; these days the most prevalent ones are those of Jesus, Yahweh, and Allah.

Star Trek has explicitly dealt with the idea of God only once, in Star Trek V: The Final Frontier. Its plot had Spock’s half-brother Sybok embarking on a search for God and taking the Enterprise to the center of the galaxy, an allusion to the Source or Heaven. When the Enterprise arrives there, the crew indeed finds a seemingly all-powerful being, but it’s far from benevolent. The being is a trapped alien power who wants to free itself by stealing the Enterprise, and it nearly kills Kirk and Spock in attempting to do so; Sybok dies fighting the creature.

There’s an important line at the movie’s end. After Sybok’s death, Kirk, Spock and McCoy stand on the Enterprise’s observation deck, looking out onto the stars. “We were speculating. Is God really out there?” McCoy muses. Kirk’s simple reply beautifully encapsulates Star Trek’s view of human spirituality: “Maybe he’s not out there, Bones. Maybe he’s right here-” he points to his chest- “in the human heart.” It’s a line that William Shatner, who also directed the film, had to fight to include in the final released because Paramount studio executives feared it would be controversial.

But why? If God created the universe, then wouldn’t God be omnipresent in all things? Can’t the best that mankind has to offer be found within our hearts, within ourselves? Like any other species, it’s our instinctual task to survive and to propagate, and so at our most basic, we’d prefer a sense of certainty, safety, and security. But we are not so basic; we are explorers, adventurers into the unknown. The idea that people can overcome their failings and petty squabbles and adventure together is essential to Star Trek. We can realize our true potential, can gather together for a higher purpose and seek out that purpose. Our best destiny, as Captain Picard once put it, is “work[ing] to better ourselves and the rest of humanity;” the human adventure is just beginning.

In those hours in my grandparents’ house each week, I found something new and different, a way to visit strange new worlds. When I believed, I wasn't alone; Trekkies are true believers- believers in humanity. Trekkies are no different from everyone else, least of all spiritual people, in that they aren’t satisfied with what is; they stand in wonder of what is and dream about what could be. And in that sense, Ringo Starr’s words from Help! seem all too appropriate: “It’s a different religion from ours- I think.”

An Open Letter to Bongo, The Sister Sledge, and those other two guys in U2

2006-10-10T11:56:00.000+01:00

I'm a big U2 fan. When they were at Abbey Road Studios a few weeks ago, I waited three nights so I could meet them and get their autographs. Yes, the song "With or Without You" is shit, but they were one of the best bands of the 80s and 90s.

So, as someone who loves U2, I'd like to ask them here and now: please stop.

They have plenty of other career opportunities- Larry and Adam could do another version of the Mission: Impossible theme song for the next M:I movie (as they did for the first), Edge can keep pursuing his Music Rising foundation in New Orleans (and I think he'd be wise to go the way of Ocasek and Jerry Harrison and start producing other bands), and Bono can keep on being Jesus. If he ran for President of the World, I think he'd do OK.

U2's putting out (yet another) best-of disc soon with songs spanning their entire career plus two of the songs they recorded at Abbey Road, which is good cos the last good new album they put out was 1993's "Zooropa." Why not have a last hurrah a la the Rolling Stones' "Forty Licks" tour? I fear that if they don't, they'll become the next Stones (if they haven't already), a near-parody cover band of themselves. They can carry on their self-fashioned Most Important Band of All Time Ever image, which is becoming as easy to take as sandpaper rubbed on the genitals, or go out as they should: the band that wrote "New Year's Day," "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," "Mysterious Ways," and a bunch of other really good songs. Consider it, fellas; let it go, and so to fade away.

The Sandwich Heard Round the World

2006-10-10T10:20:00.000+01:00

The possibility of becoming a revolutionary figurehead or an enemy of the state would never have occurred to John O'Brien, but then again, few things had ever occurred to him at all.

For two and a half years, John had been enrolled at American University. He had never felt more liberated, his mind open to the possibilities of academic enlightenment and free to be generously bombarded with whatever chemicals John could bum from his friends. While enjoying one such chemical once, John received the Secret of the Universe and, citing his college education's irrelevance in the cosmic scheme of things, chose to discontinue it.

Luckily, John's friend Carl Ward had found part-time employment in the mailroom of a prominent investment bank in the heart of Washington, D.C. Carl, possessing a good heart and a head perhaps only slightly less muddled than John's, recommended his friend to his supervisors. And so John, taxably employed and supplementing his acknowledged income by dealing to his friends and landlord, was on course to lead an uneventful, unremarkable life.

At 11:42 A.M. one Tuesday, John stumbled out of bed, free to enjoy a day off. Aside from a small cadre of cockroaches and some mold around the sink, the only other living things with whom John shared his small basement apartment were a pair of hamsters so addled that such a nominal task as running on their wheel often brought on seemingly impossible mechanical difficulties. Observing the absurdity of their condition, John had named them Vladimir and Estragon. He fed the sleeping rodents then prepared his own favorite breakfast: a bowl of Lucky Charms and a bong of chronic. He settled on the couch and switched on the T.V., beginning to light up and chow down as the local news glowed to life.

"...the alleged incident on the farm, which is said to have take place three weeks ago. Mr. Beck, the goat's owner, has agreed to drop the beastiality charge after receiving an out-of-court settlement offer from Ms. Coulter's attorneys.

"And in local D.C. news, protestors have been gathering in front of the White House for the second annual Peaceable Assembly Day. As per the terms of last year's H.R. 74656, better known as the First Amendment Security Revision Act, citizens are allowed one day each year to petition the government for a redress of grievances in a safe, military-patrolled setting. And as you can see here in front of the White House, people are turning out for all kinds of causes on this once-a-year opportunity."

The newscast cut from inside the studio to a shot of the protestors. A scowl spread across John's cereal-stuffed face. "Echh. Hippies," he muttered.

"Everyone from the A.C.L.U. to Jews for Jesus is here today," the newscaster continued, "and I think I speak for most D.C. residents when I say I can't wait for them to be gone tomorrow. When we come back, we'll bring you an update on Hydra, the three-headed cat born last week, and bring you a dire official warning from the Surgeon General's office about marijuana use and its newly declared side effect of rotting off men's testicles. We'll be back in a moment."

This latter revelation caused a Vesuvius-like eruption of coughing in the wild-eyed John, sending a marshmallow pot of gold rocketing from his mouth and splatting against the T.V. screen, where it remained stuck. Estragon briefly opened one eye to investigate the loud hacking, recognized it as part of his master's routine, and immediately fell back asleep. John had not yet completed his coughing fit when the guitar riff from Black Sabbath's "Paranoid" filled the room; his phone was ringing. He picked up its receiver.

"(cough) Hello?"

"Johnny, why aren't you at work?"

A grimace spread across his face at the sound of the shrill voice. "I've told you a hundred times, Benneta, I have Tuesdays off."

"And I've told you a thousand times, John O'Brien, that I want you to call me Mom! If not Mom, then Mother, or Ma, or something else that acknowledges the fact that I carried you for nine months and brought you into this world!"

"Right. Uh, thanks for that. What's up?"

"I know it's probably no use, but I thought I'd call again to see if you'd sent your resume anywhere else."

He sighed and twirled the phone cord. "No, Benneta. I told you that I've got all I need right now."

"But John, don't you want something more? Do you have no ambition at all?"

"Of course I have ambition," he said as he took a huge bong hit. "I swear, one day my music is going to take me places."

John's band, a conceptual Christian death-metal act called the Bloody Virgin Marys, had inexplicably failed to take him places in the arenas of either Christian rock or death metal.

"John, you left college three years ago! The band is going nowhere! When are you going to make something of yourself?!"

"Uh-oh, Benneta, I think I hear the air-raid sirens- the terrorists must be coming. I've gotta go." He quickly put down the receiver, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Beginning to reload the bong, he looked over to Vladimir and Estragon. "The nerve of some people!" he proclaimed. In response, Vladimir shook his head, licked himself, then fell back asleep.

John was just returning to his placid stupor when the Sabbath riff filled the room again. Exasperated, John picked it up. "Now what?" he exclaimed.

"Uh, now what what?" a perplexed male voice replied.

"Oh, hey, man," John said, recognizing Carl. "What's goin' on?"

"Not too much. Want to meet for business lunch?"

"Eh, I'm just finishing breakfast," he said, scraping at some bong resin.

"You sure? I was going to go to McDonald's," Carl replied.

John had often said that there were only three things that drew him from his apartment: work, weed, and the sweet promise held within the Golden Arches. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes," John declared. Imbued with a sense of immediate purpose, John arose, hung up, and headed toward the Metro.

-

On the north side of the White House, more than several squads of heavily armed Secret Service officers flanked the group of citizens employed pliably enough to attend Peaceable Assembly Day. They corralled the conscientious objectors into a neat, tightly patrolled quadrangle in which pandemonium could safely ensue. Two protestors had broken out in a fistfight, violently pummeling and strangling each other and trampling their respective cast-off signs, which read "Peace for Israel" and "Peace for Palestine." Three others, one wearing fashionable Nike sneakers, another sipping a Frappuccino, and another chattering into a Razr cell phone, held signs bearing vehemently anti-corporate slogans. With the exception of one joker holding a sign reading "I'm Holding a Sign," the protest was a spectacular kaleidoscope of causes, a gathering of concerned citizens joined not by common origin or thinking but by common purpose: to speak out, to right what they saw as wrong, to keep fighting the good fight. They knew that one day, they would overcome.

"I fuckin' hate hippies," John said, observing the scene. Carl and he had just crossed 17th St., noshing on their just-bought McDonald's sandwiches and having a spirited conversation, when the Peaceable proceedings came into their view. The Secret Service agents had moved the crowd several yards back from the White House lawn, centering it on the road that separated Lafayette Park from the President's palace. Thus, John and Carl sauntered along as close to the White House fence as possible, keeping John's hippie allergy from being agitated by maximizing their distance from the mass of civil obedience.

"Anyway, as I was saying, ZOSO is obviously better than II," John continued.

"You're out of your mind," Carl replied. "That's like saying Physical Graffiti is better than I. Do you like Foghat now, too? Tell me, are the Eagles better than Creedence?"

"Man, don't be such an elitist. The guitar part from 'Life in the Fast Lane' is real, real good." John finished his McChicken, then turned his nose up at the wrapper that was left. "Hey, do you see a trash can anywhere?"

Carl looked around. "Not one in sight. They probably don't want the hippies to have anything to eat from."

"Aw, man, I want to get rid of this trash. Maybe I'll just drop it."

"Just wait until we find one," Carl advised as he looked on at the armed agents. "I don't think it'd be wise to even litter right now."

"Echh," John replied. He then looked to his immediate right, at the White House lawn beyond the fence. Inside John's foggy head, a lightbulb blinked on. He raised one eyebrow, looked around him, and believing that there were no eyes on him, made a decision. He crumpled the yellow wax paper into a tight ball, and nonchalantly, without looking, cast the McChicken wrapper aside and onto the White House lawn.

This was, indeed, unwise.

Before John knew it (quite literally, as a result of his chemically dulled reflexes), three Secret Service troops had thrown him to the ground, trained their automatic weapons on his head, and bound his hands and feet. "Ow!" was all he could muster as his face ground against the pavement and a booted foot pressed down on his back. "Jesus, man, that hurts!" he cried.

Then a conscientious objector who had been protesting for peace in the war on Christmas noticed the agents as they detained John. "Hey, look, they're beating that guy for throwing trash on the lawn!"

A pro-NAMBLA protestor joined in, saying "We have a right to put our trash wherever we put it! Fuck the man!" He quickly dug through his pockets then threw the first thing he could find: an empty condom wrapper. It plopped onto the meticulously cut lawn next to the McChicken wrapper.

Others began to join in. "The President is trashing our country!" "Take back what you give to us!" they shouted as they catapulted their missiles. Soon, every protestor, having found their martyr, began to emulate his action, throwing whatever trash they had on their persons onto the White House lawn, creating a no-man's-land of flying garbage.

As the Secret Service agents hoisted John atop their shoulders, something occurred to him. "Oh, shit!" he exclaimed, desperately scanning the crowd in search of Carl. He spotted him standing by the fence, trying to appear as innocent a bystander as possible. "Hey, man, can you take care of the hamsters?" he called. Carl did not turn to acknowledge John, but gave a brief thumbs-up to signal his affirmative.

Meanwhile, the trash-tossing had become a full-blown deluge, an ongoing meteor shower of waste that continued to pelt the White House lawn long after John had been hauled away.

-

"...runners-up in the Time Magazine poll include Mahatma Gandhi, George Washington, and Martin Luther King, Jr. In a press release, Ronald Reagan's estate thanked Time's readers for naming him the Most Popular Leader in World History.

"And in a continuing story, the attack on the White House during Peaceable Assembly Day appears to have been a first strike, as several similar assaults have taken place in the subsequent days. Insurgents have spray-painted the Thomas Jefferson Memorial black, covered the statue of Franklin Delano Roosevelt in silly string, and most appallingly, thrown several Whopper burgers at the face of the George W. Bush Memorial. Federal troops have been authorized to use all necessary force to put down the uprising.

"The terrorist leader, apprehended immediately after he launched the first projectile towards the White House, remains secure in federal custody."

-

As he walked toward the interrogation room, Agent Edwin Johnson clutched John O'Brien's FBI file in his left hand while he clenched and unclenched his right. Johnson, a gruff, mustachioed man who had distinguished himself at Bob Jones State University and Quantico with his unswerving constancy of ineptitude and flights of self-heroizing fantasy and who for fifteen years had been enjoying a thoroughly unsatisfying marriage, was excited; at long last, he was able to interrogate a real live terrorist. He had been disappointed when he found out that the terrorist's last name wasn't Muhammad or al-Whatever, but found immediate solace upon reading the name O'Brien. A fervent Protestant, Johnson relished the prospect of taking down an IRA operative.

And so, upon entering the room, he was shocked not to find the burly Mick he'd expected, but the scrawny brat who greeted him with "Oh, hey, man. Can I have my phone call? I have these two hamsters, see, and-"

"Shut the fuck up," Johnson reflexively snapped, still off-guard at the sight of this punk. He collected himself and looked at the file. "John O'Brien. That your real name?"

Quieted but smirking, John replied "My mom named me after her favorite Beatle. I suppose some asshole was gonna get me sooner or later."

Agent Johnson mentally vowed retribution for the terrorist's insolence. "You seem to have no prior ties to terrorist organizations, but you do have a criminal record."

"Aw, man, I thought I got that expunged," John said exasperatedly. "All I did was walk out of a 7-11 with a bag of Cheetos, but I honestly just forgot to pay."

"Tell me, Mr. O'Brien, what have you got against the United States?"

John considered this, furrowing his brow and looking up to the ceiling. After a moment, he replied "Mmm, not too much. I wish our drug laws would be more like Canada's, but no biggie, really."

Johnson fumed. "I want to know why you launched an attack on this sovereign nation, Mr. O'Brien."

"Man, like I told the other guy, I just couldn't find a trash can. In retrospect, I guess chucking the McChicken wrapper was a bad idea. There, I apologized- can you mark that down in your file?"

The fury within Johnson was barely containable. "Goddammit, I'm going to get the answers I want from you, no matter what I have to do. Tell me, Mr. O'Brien, have you ever heard of waterboarding?"

"Well, I went to Maui for spring break once, but I'm not a big surfing fan."

Johnson exploded. "I swear on Jesus' name I'll take you down!! Try all you want, you terrorist piece of shit, but freedom and justice will always prevail in this great land! America will never fall at the hands of uppity hippies like you!"

For the first time since Carl had slipped Woodstock into his Netflix queue, John became livid with rage. "A hippie?! Man, fuck you, Porky Pig! Hey, while we're at it, nice mustache- you've really let yourself go since you were in the Village People! Now where's my phone call, man? I've got hamsters to worry about!"

Johnson cursed the activist Supreme Court, which had unfortunately prohibited him from doing what he felt was necessary for the good of the nation: beating the living hell out of his suspect. He forced himself to exit, but not without first turning around and leaving John with a warning: "You're going down."

-

"Protestors are once again violating the terms of H.R. 74656, forming a demonstration outside of the White House in a show of support for John O'Brien. It was announced yesterday that the terrorist leader was convicted by a federal grand tribunal of violating Title VIII of the USA PATRIOT Amendment and was sentenced to death.

"Demonstrators appeared not only for O'Brien, but rallied for other imprisoned criminals and insurgents like Mumia Abu-Jamal, Dennis Kucinich, and the late Cuban guerrilla leader Che Guevara. Despite numerous letters and phone calls from his prison cell asking for support, however, no one outside the White House today stood in support of Michael Moore.

"O'Brien's execution is scheduled for midnight tonight."

-

"Mr. O'Brien! Any last words for the record?" the Fox Daily News reporter giddily asked, drooling at the chance to get a top-of-the-fold quote from the most famous terrorist in America.

"Yeah," John replied as he was strapped into the electric chair. "Don't fuckin' litter."

The chair was every bit as uncomfortable as John had imagined. His newly bald head itched but he was unable to scratch it, owing to the fact that his hands were secured and he was wearing a helmet designed to zap him into oblivion. Worse still, he had heartburn. Refusing the lobster and steak offered him by the prison's cook for his last meal, he instead made a special request. It was granted, and the last meal John had on earth was the same that had doomed him in the first place: a McChicken sandwich.

As the minister began to administer the last rites, John's mind began to wander. He looked around and smiled as he noticed Carl enter the room. "Oh, hey, man!" he called.

Carl stared at his friend in trancelike disbelief. "Uh, hey."

"How are the hamsters?" John asked.

Carl snapped out of it and grimaced. "Uh, I'd kinda hoped you wouldn't ask. There was a terrible accident with the wheel, and after that, well, there wasn't much left of them."

John gave a look of final exasperation. "Ah, shit," he said resignedly.

"Yeah. Sorry, man."

"No biggie. It could be worse, after all," he said, indicating the helmet with his eyes. He sighed.

As the priest finally quit his droning and finished the rites with "May God have mercy on your soul," John caught a glimpse of the TV in the next room. The news was broadcasting from outside the White House, where swarms of the same hippies whom John so loathed waved signs supporting him. Some even held McChicken wrappers in the air. John's thoughts turned from mangled rodents, and he grinned. Aghast, Carl asked his friend "What're you smiling about?"

Just before the executioner threw the switch, frying him like his favorite foods, John looked to his friend and replied "Tell Benne- tell Mom that I made something of myself."

Islamist Happy Fun Time

2006-10-10T10:11:00.000+01:00

The first post in what I'm sure will be a recurring series of the madcap zany antics of fundamentalist Islamists! Let the laughs begin!

The Merchant of Venice didn't completely suck.

2006-10-08T20:49:00.000+01:00

All that glistens is not gold;
Often have you heard that told.
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold.
Gilded tombs do worms infold.
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscrolled.
Fare you well, your suit is cold.

-The Merchant of Venice, Act 2, Scene 7

Blogs are for assholes

2006-10-06T12:20:00.000+01:00

And lookie here- it's a blog. Guilty as charged.

Well, why not start with something good, like Iggy and the Stooges' absolutely hilarious tour rider? Raw power is sure to come a-runnin' to you.