A Small Victory

Another day, another scam.

I first heard of Word-of-Mouth this morning, at Laurence’s place. Then I started receiving emails from the same URL as Laurence, emails telling me that someone was looking to spread gossip or search for information about me and I can find out just what that gossip is for only $19.97!. Then Kevin over at Wizbang wrote about it, and explained the scam.

Now, I’m not going to fall for this and pay someone to find out what people are saying about me. I get that for free by going to certain blogs. But it does leave me quite curious. Just what are people looking for and, more importantly, what kind of gossip are they spreading about me?

Well, don’t go dropping good money that can otherwise be spent on Nigerian consulates who offer you fortunes or a bigger penis in ten days. I’m sure you heard all the rumors as it is, and you don’t need some scam website to confirm them for you for cash. I’ll confirm every rumor for you, and then you can put your wallet away and get the added benefit of not having to rummage through certain blogs and the ensuing comments to get to know the real me. It’s like free beer - free foamy, watery, tap beer. In a dirty glass.

I am really a 250 lb midget who moonlights at a circus, doing double duty as both the bearded lady and the one who steps in lion shit so the clowns can point at me and laugh. Makes the kids laugh like crazy. I spend my days offering sex to strangers in order to combat my deep-seated need to feel loved, even if that love is only physical. Once in a while you can find me in a seedy neighborhood bar, throwing darts and playing Tammy Wynette on the jukebox. I drink Tanqueray, straight out of the bottle. I don’t really have any kids. Sometimes I’ll go to an orphanage to see if there’s a kid I can take out for the day, then we’ll go stand in front of Penn Station and panhandle. People can’t resist a begging kid, especially a five-year old orphan in a wheelchair, holding a sign that says “My daddy is Carson Daily and he won’t give me any money, but he bought that Tara Reid whore her tits.” On Saturdays I drink the blood of the small kittens I sacrifice. Sundays are a day of rest, so you’ll find me on my back, making some extra money, usually behind the 7-11, where the drunk old men hang out. I roll them for money when I’m done with them, then blow it all on Mountain Dew Slurpees, topped off with whatever leftover liquor I can find in my mother’s garbage. I used to run guns for Castro, I slept with Noriega and Imelda Marcos (but not at the same time), I have ties to a militant group on the Island of Misfit Toys and I voted for Nader in the last election.

There, now put the ten bucks back in your wallet and back away from those other comment sections. The truth has set me free.

Posted by at 02:48 PM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (2)

You ever wake up with that feeling of impending doom, like something is about to happen - something bad - and you just don't know what?

That's how I woke up this morning. I've been looking over my shoulder all day, constantly refreshing the CNN page waiting to see that red-bannered breaking news headline announcing armageddon.

I was exchanging emails with Faith this morning about September 11 and how days with a beautiful blue sky and pleasant temperatures always make us think of that day.

And then I had my first panic attack in over a year. The last one was in March 2002 and shortly after that (that day I had a series of panic attacks lasting almost the entire afternoon), I started taking anti-anxiety medication and life has been panic-free since [I've had panic attacks since 9th grade, so we can't blame that on 9/11].

And then today. I was attempting to cross Main street in order to get a salad from McDonald's. My feet froze. I broke out in a cold sweat and headed into that void where everything feels like a dream and I knew the closed throat and short breaths were not far away. I walked back into the building, composed myself and walked back out again. I wasn't going to give in to this one.

I eventually made it to McDonald's and back into my office, but I write this with shaky hands and a light head.

As Faith said: I know I ask this over and over, and that there's no answer, but when does it stop?

What I want to know is why does it keep suprising me? Why does that day and the panic sneak up on me in my sleep and wake me like a sinister alarm clock sometimes? Why do I carry that feeling throughout the day and let it hang over me like a storm?

And yes, when will it stop?

Posted by at 12:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (3)

[via Ultimate Insult]

Poor Bugs Bunny. We'll never know for sure how many of his lines, and those of his buddies, have fallen to the cutting room floor in the name of political correctness, but we get a good idea of the cuts from Censored Looney Tunes.

Granted, some of the cut scenes were completely offensive, albeit a product of their time. But some of them reek of the culture of non-responsibility, wherein behaviors seen on television might cause a viewer to repeat those behaviors, thus engaging in something they shouldn't, causing havoc, and then turning around and suing the creators of the program and/or the television station that aired it for putting those nasty ideas in their head in the first place.

The following are all scenes that have actually been cut from cartoons. The reasons given are made up by me, of course, but that doesn't mean they don't have a basis in reality.

"Apes of Wrath" (Freleng; 1959): ABC: The entire beginning sequence wherein the drunken stork clubs Bugs on the head to substitute him for the real baby ape was gone. Also edited was the mother gorilla running after her husband and bashing his head with a rolling pin. Further, scenes of Bugs "playfully" hitting Elvis with a stick were shortened.

Reason: May cause children to believe that storks bring babies, thus making the whole concept of pre-k sex education confusing.

"Baby Buggy Bunny" (Jones; 1954): ABC: The scene wherein Bugs puts Baby Face Finster in the washing machine after Finster has played with the "dirty money" was removed from this cartoon. Also gone was Bugs throwing Finster up in the air, saying, "Oh dear, I do believe I have forgotten my fudge," walking away, and letting Finster land flat on his face; the cut was done so that it appeared that Finster fell from atop a bookshelf. Deleted too was Bugs learning painfully the truth about Finster's "toy" gun. "Yeesh, some toy!"

Reason: The censors did not have the sense of humor required to understand that this was one of the best episodes ever. May cause adults to abuse children or launder money.

"Beep, Beep!" (Jones; 1952): Nickelodeon: In the original version of this cartoon, Wile E. Coyote falls off of a cliff and before he hits gorge bottom, he swallows two Aspirin. Nickelodeon removed the Aspirin.

Falling off of a cliff is all fine and dandy, kids. But whatever you do, DO NOT TAKE THE ASPIRIN! Good thing we realized in time that aspirin is a gateway drug.

"One Froggy Evening" (Jones; 1955): ABC: The sign that reads, "Free Beer," that is placed outside of the theatre in the man's attempt to attract customers was excised. WB: Same edit as on ABC.

Reason: The beer industry issued a cease and desist letter to Warner Brothers.

"Fright Before Christmas" (Freleng; 1979): ABC: Missing was the Tasmanian Devil eating Christmas tree bulbs and chain lights and electrifying himself as Bugs reads Clyde's "brief" Christmas want list that includes a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde chemical set.

Reason: The ACLU was concerned that this clip would suggest that only Catholics and Christians could electrocute themselves during the holiday season.

And now, for the interactive fun portion of the blog!

There's more, more, more where these came from. There's also another site with a list of cuts. Go find one of the deleted scenes and come up with your own reason for the cut. Come on, make me laugh so I can forget that Friday is so far away.

Oh, and go watch Wakkiki Wabbit, one of the best episodes ever. W're gonna have woast wabbit!

UPDATE: Phil has the good news that they will be releasing the uncut, uncensored versions of the MM and LT cartoons on DVD in October.

Posted by at 10:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (26) | TrackBacks (5)

I stumbled onto the site for the Highway Safety Films Project. Mechanized Death!

Ah, Driver's Ed. Gore films, scare tactics and thinking the care was in drive when it was really in reverse. But that's another story.

I'm using the finding of this site to repeat my driver's ed post from March of 2002, because I really need to get some work done right now. Enjoy.

I took driver's ed in 1979, the beginning of my senior year in high school. The class met two days a week after school, one day for driving and one day for classroom lecture.

The classroom lecture consisted mostly of us watching films while the instructor, Mr D. (who was also our history teacher) used his pointer to draw attention to the finer points of the film. He banged the screen with that wooden stick enough that he there were several holes in it by the end of the semester. He took his driving seriously. Mr. D was all about the dangers that lurked on the roadways. Apparently, death and mayhem were waiting to greet us at every turn.

The first film we saw that year would later be referred to as "The Box of Death." It was animated, as most of the gore-fest driver's ed films were, and starred a crudely drawn teenager driving a sports car. The teen is speeding down a residential street when he approaches a box in the middle of the road. Just a big, white cardboard box sitting in the middle of a side street. A bubble pops up above the teen's head, cartoon style, and in it we see the teen is thinking of his two choices in the situation: drive around the box (good choice) or drive over the box (bad choice). Cheesy music plays. Tension abounds. The teen guns the engine and goes for it.

At this point Mr. D. stops the film.
"What do you think is going to happen here, class?"
"Uhh...hes going to hit the box..."
"YES!" Pointer smacks screen. "He is going to hit the box! Because he has MADE THE WRONG CHOICE!" Each word brings a smack of the pointer. The flimsly screen sways. "Would you like to see what happens? Are you ready to see where a bad choice can lead you?" We begin to think he is reading from the same script as the police officer who came to warn us, a bit late, about drugs.
Those of us who aren't already asleep encourage him to play the rest of the film.

Our speeding teenager who made the wrong choice continues down the road, hell bent on running down that mysterious box. He hits it with a loud thud, and the box goes flying in the air. It lands on the sidewalk. The teen gets out of the car and stand there with a Home Alone look of surprise on his face. He walks to the box, where it rests upside down and battered, and carefully lifts it up. I don't know what we expected to see. Garbage or soda cans or even homeless kitties. But, no...we see an arm. A small child's cartoon arm sticking out of the box, looking somewhat bruised and bloody.

Instead of recoiling in horror and shame, we burst out laughing.

"Is there something funny about a dead child?" Mr. D is not happy with us.
We giggle uncontrollably. A kid was the last thing we expected to be in the box. Why? Because it's incredibly absurd. Someone comments that if a kid was hiding in a cardboard box in the middle of the road, he sort of deserves to be hit by a car. Mr. D. threatens us all with driver's ed failure. Then he lectures on The Box.

"That box could be filled with anything. Leaves, children, bricks!" We are rolling on the floor now. We have no idea what box he is talking about. For as long as all of us have lived on this earth, none of us have ever come across a cardboard box, empty or filled with small children, in the middle of the road. We make jokes about brick-filled boxes. We make bad puns revolving around kids named Jack (jack-in-the-box...get it?). Mr. D. realizes lecturing on The Box is useless. He warns us that the films we will see in the coming weeks will make The Box look like a comic book.

We spend the subsequent lecture days in a dark classroom, projector rolling and Mr. D. banging the pointer around. We see school buses imploding. Cars going off cliffs. Rag doll bodies being thrown through car windshields. Corpses, brains, body parts and crying teenagers, all ketchup and fake goo and Jamie Lee Curtis caliber screaming, set to a 70's soundtrack that sounds as if it were ripped from a porn film. They had titles like "Death Never Takes a Holiday" and "Mechanized Death" and "Blood on the Highway" and we began to look forward to these films the way we looked forward to watching horror movies at Mike's house on Friday nights.

These films became the Reefer Madness of driving culture. Instead of scaring us as they were intended to do, they served as pure entertainment. There were kids who weren't even taking driver's ed and would sneak into our classroom just to see "When Death Comes Driving."

We were sad when the semester ended and our car crash gorefest was over. We all passed Mr. D.'s class with flying colors, most likely because didn't want to see us in his classroom again the next semester. We were the kids who laughed at death.

I'm sure Mr. D. would be happy to know that all these years later, I still think of him every time I run down a box in the road.

Posted by at 09:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (1)

I usually remember every detail of my dreams, in great clarity. However, this morning I've been frustrated at not being able to recall my dream, but able to recall just the sense that it was something I may not want to remember.

And then I'm on an early morning phone call with an attorney and, bam! Mid-sentence I remember the dream. My mouth hangs open.

The attorney is yelling into his cell "Hello? You still there? Hello?"

Oh yea, sorry, just remembered that I dreamed last night of being in a three-way with some bloggers who will remain unnamed and my parents walked into the bedroom and caught us in the act and I couldn't find my panties and there I am scrambling around, naked and embarassed and finally the police pull up, sirens blaring and hustle us off in our birthday suits because we had some nerve having sex together when there were other bloggers who weren't getting any at all, and there were reporters at the station house and Mickey Kaus had a whole column about it the next day and my god, my parents were mortified but, hey, my blog made number one in the ecosystem because everyone wanted to see if I was going to post pictures of my sexual liason with the two unnamed bloggers.

"Sorry," I say to the attorney, "must have lost the connection for a second."

If only there were a recycle bin for dreams.

Posted by at 08:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (2)

I'm almost done with my 26things.

Short poll - which picture should I use for the "food" category?

[click for big appetite size]

Posted by at 07:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (13)

Late start today, so I'll just leave you with some Very Special Links until I can get settled in at work and begin blogging and not working.

Dean Esmay interviews Cox & Forkum

Carnival of the Vanities is over at Lies, Damn Lies, and Statstics.

Thank you, Yankee management.

Happy Birthday Gnat and Buzz.

The saddest thing I've read this week.

Traffic awaits.

Posted by at 07:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

I mentioned the other day that I am re-reading Nelson DeMille's The Lion's Game.

I picked up the book tonight and hit this passage, whrere the fugitive-on-a-jihad Kahlil is in a taxi cab with a compatriot:

"If you look that way, sir, to your right, you will see lower Manhattan, what they call the Financial District. You will notice the two very tall and identical towers."

Kahlil lookeed at the massive buildings of lower Manhattan, which seemed to rise out of the water. He saw the two towers of the World Trade Cener and appreciated Jabbar pointing them out. Kahlil said, "Maybe next time."

Jabbar smiled and replied, "God willing."

That was written in 2000.

I put the book down and looked for something else to read.

Posted by at 09:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

I've been thinking about my accent.

For years, I would swear to anyone who asked that I do not have a Long Island accent. Deny, Deny, Deny.

Statia mentioned accents today. Lileks mentioned accents - Madonna does not have a Long Island accent James. It's more like wannabe Bronx.

So here it is. I do have an accent.

I say mawl instead of mall. I say cawfee instead of coffee.

Yea, I go to the mawl with my dawter to have some cawfee and tawk. You should hear my when I'm on a cursing streak. I sound like something that crawled out of a South Shore sewer.

There are a number of people who can attest to this infliction I have. Meryl, Melly, Alan, Travis, just to name a few.

Go ahead guys, my threat to kill you if you told is cancelled.

It's a curse to sound like MaryJo Buttafuco. At least I don't act like her. Yet.

Don't come near my husband, bitch.

Posted by at 08:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (22) | TrackBacks (2)

For Tim Blair:

[You really need to read the Blair link to get it. Film made with Dfilm]

Posted by at 07:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBacks (4)

I love open, honest discussion. Of course, that only happens when you have two open, honest people who are willing to listen to someone else's point of view. Which is why I love emaling with . Rossi She makes some very good, personal points in response to my take on the gay high school issue.

Go read. I mean, you should be reading Rossi anyhow.

Posted by at 01:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (33)

I deleted this post for various reasons. Mostly, because it was petty. I should have taken my concerns directly to Cat instead of going out in the open here.

Also, many of the commenters are right on the money: The point was to raise money for MDA, which we did, with great results. Nothing else should matter.

Posted by at 12:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (19) | TrackBacks (3)

More Hijacks on the Way?

Huh? Did you say something? Sorry, I stopped paying attention.

Just tell me if I need to put away the yellow Chucks and take out the orange..

Posted by at 11:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Did I or did I not ask you to come up with a title for my story?

I'm thinking of cleaning it up and enterting in two short story contests this month. (Trail of the Slug was apparently too long to be considered a short story).

Go. Name my story, because that, to me, is the hardest part of the writing process - giving my babies names.

Posted by at 11:23 AM | Permalink | Comments (22) | TrackBacks (1)

Seen on my way to work today, on the Nassau Coliseum billboard:

Pop Tarts presents American Idol Live!

Posted by at 09:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (1)

Yes, everyone and their blog-brother is commenting on New York's gay public high school, but that won't stop me from adding my two cents.

I've always been a big advocate of gay rights, but this decision does not sit right with me.

This is a typical liberal suggestion: stigmatize the victim, reward the victimizer. While I do believe these kids will benefit from a fear-free environment in which to learn, I see too many ways this is a bad, bad idea.

Basically, the public school system in New York is saying "we can't handle the problem of gay bashing in our schools, so we'll just make the mess go away by making the gay students go away."

What a boon the public school administrators. They don't have to deal with support groups, weeping students, harassment lawsuits and the whole sticky mess that erupts when gay students want to go to the prom together. They are, in effect, kowtowing to the anti-gay crowd by doing this, while trying to come off as champions of gay rights.

What kind of precedent do they set when they feel the best way to deal with bullying and harrasment in schools is to remove the victims from the schools? Why isn't the administration taking care of the people who are actually doing the victimizing? Where is the reform school for bullies?

Remember that problem I had with DJ and his bully this past school year? Remember how I was angered that the administration wanted to find out what made the bully tick, and whether or not my son had been sending out signals that he should be picked on? Now, imagine if they had suggested my son go to a special school for kids who are picked on. Remove him from the situation and it goes away, right? Wrong. I wouldn't have stood for it.

By removing the gay kids from the situation, they are giving the bullies and gay-bashers a clear win. Those strong-armed kids will now be thinking "Hey, if there's a group of people I don't like, I can just pick on them until the school gets rid of them for me."

This is not sound thinking on the part of NYC schools. They have done nothing to reduce the harassment, nothing to teach the bullies about proper behavior and respecting fellow human beings, nothing to punish the kids who reduce others to tears because they are different.

This is where our society has gone wrong and it's completely a liberal thing. All this nonsense about feelings, and all the touchy-feely handling of victimizers has gotten out of hand. Columbine was a result of that. Columbine was not a gun issue. It was an issue of kids getting to the breaking point because no one would hear them, no one would dare blame the bullies and instead blamed the kids for looking or acting different than your normal, run-of-the-mill jock or class president.

So what happens when the gay students are shuttled off to another school? I know what it does not do. It does not make the situation any better, it only sweeps a portion of the situation under the rug. You're still left with bigoted, small minded kids in the other school. You have not taught them anything good. The only lesson learned here is that if you act brutish enough, people will remove your enemies out of your way. What a fabulous lesson to take out into the world after high school, eh?

I also imagine that the high school will become a focal point for anti-gay activists, now that they know where to find a whole bunch of gay kids in one place. It's like sticking a target on their head and yelling "Ready, Aim, Fire!" to their opponents.

Posted by at 08:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (44) | TrackBacks (7)

[Warning: Someone posted a really nasty picture at the Indymedia link below. Be careful as you scroll down that page.]

[via analog kid] Seems the upcoming movie S.W.A.T. is not sitting so well with the left-coast moonbats.

Do you remember the tv show S.W.A.T.? It was a favorite of ours, and we spent many a night running around the neighborhood, pretending to be S.W.A.T team members, lurking around corners with our "guns" at the ready. How cool were these guys, dressed in black and armed to the teeth? It was revved up violence at its finest and the show was blasted by concerned adults everywhere who thought the violence was over the top. Of course it was. That's what made the show so great. That and the theme song.

Now, in this age of everything-retro and reliving the 70's and 80's the S.W.A.T movie comes along. Looks to be good fun, great nostalgia moment.

Not so for the oh-so-sensitive folks over in the far corners of the left. They want to take subversive action to deface the movie posters for S.W.A.T. Their delicate sensibilities have been hurt, their feelings have been injured and their blood pressure has been raised by a poster for a movie. By a piece of fiction.

I definitely think that the movie-going public will need to be informed that movies glorifying the militarization of law enforcement are not entertainment.

Sure they are. Then again, we're talking about a group of people here who hate cops and would take pleasure in seeing a poster for a movie called Kill All The Pigs.

Case in point:

Some of the billboards are at ground level. So, how about, on white paper, big black letters on a white background, saying, "For free tickets, dial 1-800 kilpigs...or something like that.

I see. So a poster depicting a fictional account of a fictional police team doing fictional things is horrifying and a blight on society, but glorifying the murder of police officers is ok.

Now, scroll down that page to see the modifications made to the original S.W.A.T. poster.

Ah, Samuel L. Jackson is a sellout. I mean, he's black and he's making money in Hollywood. How dare he!

Then there's the one glorifying cop-killing. Lest you think that one is too sublte, check out the name of the jpg.

And what would be a loony left action without calling for the death of Bush and Cheney? I just wouldn't have felt complete if this call to action against a movie poster didn't somehow invoke the war criminal mantra.

Perhaps I would be more inclined to listen to the opinions and views of these people if they didn't engage in double standards on a constant basis. They claim to be about racial equality, yet they piss and moan about Jackson making this movie. I don't remember any cries about violence when he made Pulp Fiction. I guess playing a hitman is ok, but playing a police officer is a no-no.

They claim to be about peaceful solutions to problems, but here they are using the tired phrase "kill pigs" to make their point. Remember, kids, police using force - bad. Using force against police - good. That will be on your Moonbats 101 test tomorrow.

I'm tired of their narrow thinking, that the world should submit to their idols or face the consequences. They will burn down your house, set your cars on fire, splatter your store with paint, break windows, destroy public property, physicallly attack those who oppose them (see, PETA), all in the name of their cause. They will hold up signs telling you to kill cops, kill the president, destroy your neighbor's SUV, yet they say they are about peace. Peace on whose terms? Peace according to whom?

These idiots think living in an anarchist world without cops or leaders would be a utopian dream. This is a testament to the fact that they never think things through. They see the here and now and what they want, what they think is right. They are the most selfish lot of people I have ever been witness to.

When are they going to get it? Will there ever come a time when one of them will take a step back and see what they have become? In their attempts to make the world this vanilla flavored drink, they have poisoned the waters.

They are ruining society. They are wringing the joy out of every act of living.

I think I'll round up the neighborhood kids for a good game of S.W.A.T. tonight. Bring back the joy of rounding up the bad guys, of making fake machine gun sounds, of acting out a slow, agonizing death while you writhe around on the ground and your friends get a good laugh.

It's time to take back childhood from the moonbats, before they make everything other than breathing politically incorrect.

Posted by at 07:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (29) | TrackBacks (1)

Is anyone suprised that John Dvorak behaved like a complete tool at Gnomedex?

I paid $100 to come to Gnomedex. I paid that money to see people like Tim O'Reilly talk about emergent technology and such. I came to see Dan Gillmor talk about emergent journalism and Chris talk about RSS. I didn't come to have John C. Dvorak behave like Carrottop with powerpoint jokes and bag on a signficant part of the audience

Dvorak is probably the only person in his field who just doesn't get blogs.

Putz.

Posted by at 09:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (1)

This has been a very quiet commenting day. Usually on Mondays, I can't keep up with my comments? Is it me? I swear a took a shower and put deodorant on today. It's my breath, isn't it?

Well I noticed that I am slowly but surely making my way up the ladder of the Ecosystem. In fact, I am sneaking up on the creator of the system himself. Sure, I'm still a mortal human, but if just 121 people link me, I can surpass Charles and and become a higher being! I wonder if that comes with the power to smite my enemies? I mean, why would you want to claw your way to the top and become a higher being if it didn't come with certain perks?

Anyhow, where the hell are you people today? Sunning? Sleeping? Out buying me some Scope?

Posted by at 08:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (2)

It's never too early to start thinking about Halloween. Even Neil Gaiman has his Halloween plans in motion. When asked by a representativ from a movie channel if he would host their Halloween special he said:

"As a responsible and serious-minded author," I asked myself, "what kind of message would you be sending to the world by appearing as a cheesy horror host at Hallowe'en and introducing scary movies?"

I said yes immediately. I hope I get to climb out of a coffin at some point. I've always wanted to climb out of a coffin.

Is it any wonder I love that guy?

Halloween is my absolute favorite holiday. What more could expect from someone who thinks all good things in life involve zombies? It's more than just the scary costumes and candy and creepy stories that abound on that day; it's the seasonas well. There is nothing like a cool, crisp autumn day, the trees blazing with color, the breeze blowing sweet chills on the back of your neck, and me with a closet full of hoodies that are just begging to be worn.

My mother is the Halloween decorator. This works for me, as she lives across the street from me so I can live vicariously through her decorations as I am the world's greatest procrastinator and if I decorated, the ghosts and goblins would go up around Thanksgiving. So I help my mother out every year; we usually start in August, coming up with various themes and ways to implement them (see, Kurt Cobain's ghost)

When I was in that headshop/trend-o-rama Utopia that I wrote about the other day, I came upon an idea when I was browsing the movie merchandise in the upstairs gallery. We had talked about this idea before, but never got off of our butts and actually used it.

Nightmare Before Christmas. It ranks up their in both of our favorite movies list. My kids love the movie. My two year old nephew loves the movie (as soon as he walks in my house he says "Jack! Put on Jack!).

Imagine - a whole yard devoted to NBC. You can't imagine the things they have available. I'll even force my kids to dress as characters for the movie. Yes, this is going to work. It will be especially sweet to do this year as we celebrate the 10th anniversary of this great film.

Yep, it's July and I'm ready to get started on Halloween.

Posted by at 07:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

Anti-WTO "activists" take to the streets of Montreal and...now don't be suprised here...vandalize public property.

[AN] organizer, Stefan Christoff, defended the violence against the stores, saying the Gap is a multinational corporation that runs sweatshops.

Fortunately for us (but not for her) this all happened with 60 feet of Bill's workplace. And man is she pissed. Watch her tear into them.

Posted by at 06:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (2)

Who says Yankee fans don't have a sense of humor? I found this so funny I actually snorted while laughing.

June 6, 1990: Six months after the death of Billy Martin, Steinbrenner orders the body dug up and hires him as manager for the sixth time. There is no apparent difference between the dead Martin and the manager he replaces, Stump Merrill.

Feb. 18, 1999: The Yankees acquire five-time Cy Young winner Roger Clemens. Boston responds by changing the greeting on the club's phone lines from "Home of the 1918 World Series champions" to "Yankees Suck!"

Heh.

Posted by at 02:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Remember that half finished story I found about the woman looking for superhero love? I took your advice and finished it. Sort of. I guess it's a work in progress and can use some cleaning up and fresher dialogue, but you can at least see how the story ends before I edit it to pieces.

It's untitled and will remain so until one of you comes up with a good name. Suggestions also taken on the story line.

Think of it as interactive fiction writing.

[I just wrote this during my lunch hour, so be kind to the typos and grammatical errors, this is unedited work at its freshest]

The lady says to her:
“So, let’s get this profile of yours started. What exactly are you looking for in a man?
“A cape and a sword.
“Come again?”
“A cape and a sword. And he should look good in tights.”
The lady nods her head politely, but her eyes are saying “this one’s out of her fucking mind.”
“Right. Cape. Sword. Tights.” She puckers her lips tightly. “Seems like you’re looking for a superhero.” She chuckles as she says this.
“Yes. I am.”
“Aren’t we all, sweetie? Except mine would be wearing a silk robe and boxers.”
Anna nods absently.
“Anyhow,” puckered-lip lady continues, “Any specific traits you’re looking for?”
“Some kind of superpower. But not stretching. Been there, done that.”
“Superpower? You mean like breathe underwater or something of the sorts?”
Anna throws back her head and laughs, loud and hearty.
“Has he been by here? You would think after all this time he would just come clean and hit the gay circuit on the internet.”
Lip lady drums her pen on the desk. She puckers again. Anna thinks it could be a nervous habit..
“I’m not sure I’m following you here,” she says. “Are you some kind of reporter for a satire magazine?”
Anna exhales loudly.
“I am,” she says slowly just in case lip lady is not quite the bright light she makes herself out to be. “Looking for a man.”
“Right. Man with cape, sword, tights, and flying ability.”
“Did I say flying? No, I didn’t.”
“So, you’re open to other umm...superpowers?” Her lips get even tighter and they form a small, red-stained “o” and Anna thinks that lip lady looks like a balloon that’s about to pop.
“I’m open to anything that’s not stretching or flying.”
“You’re serious, aren't you.”
“Yes.”
“You know what the odds are, lady?”
“I’m quite aware.”
“Tell you what. Let’s skip over this part for now and get to you.” The lips unpucker and Anna can see red lipstick on the lady’s otherwise gleaming teeth. She says nothing. The lady stifles a yawn and continues.
“Do you have any hobbies?”
“I like scaling walls in my spare time.”
“Mmmhmm. So....you’re an athlete?”
“You could say that.”
“I will.” Lip lady taps, taps, taps the pen. She puckers and unpuckers and Anna thinks of fish.
“Would you prefer an athletic man?”

“If you mean leaping tall buildings athletic, yes.”
“Lady, every woman who comes in here is looking for Superman in one way or another.”
“What? You think Superman is the only one who can leap tall buildings? I’ll have you know that he does not own a patent on that superpower.”
Lip lady is getting frustrated. She’s doing the fish thing with her mouth constantly now and tapping her pen on the desk.
“Can you not be so obtuse, miss? I’ve got a bunch of other women out there who will most likely cut the chase and ask for a SM/NS/DF and be done with it.”
“Well then, they will just be settling. There are million SM/NS/DFs in this city. And I bet hardly a one of them has a sword and a cape.”
“Let me guess, you’re looking for that specific one that does.”
Anna smiles. “Obviously.”
Lip lady thumbs through the papers on her desk, looking harried and impatient the whole time.
“I’ve got a D&D player uptown.”
“No.”
“I’ve got a stage actor on Long Island. He does Shakespeare so there’s sure to be tights and a sword invovled.”
“No.”
Lip lady is puckering fast and furious now and is just about to give up when a yellowed, wrinkled paper falls out from the pile she is holding.
“Hmm..what’s this?”
Anna leans forward and tries to read along with Lip lady.
“If you are looking for a super man with super power, that’s me. Don’t be afraid of a man in a cape, ladies. You never know what’s underneath that cape until you try.”Anna notices a big “C” marked in red ink across the top of the paper.
“C?”
“Crazy.”
Anna smiles.
“We keep the Cs around just for shits and giggles.”
“Well that shit and giggle is mine.”
Lip lady rolls here eyes. “This paper has been around here since 1991. I don’t even know if he’s still at this number or is even still looking for a woman. For all I know, he’s at a science-fiction convention right now dressed as Luke Skywalker.”
“You know so little, ma’am, it’s scary.”
Lip lady looks like she’s about to say something but instead tucks the paper into Anna’s file and makes the fishy face.

“I’ll try to get in touch with him and give him your fact sheet. You can take it from there.”
Anna stands up and walks out. Not a handshake or thank you. Just walks on out the door, and doesn’t see Lip lady taking out a red marker and scrawling a big “C” across Anna’s paper.

Anna’s phone rings two days later.

“Hello, is this Single Girl looking for Superhero?”
“Indeed.”
“Coffee at 5 today?”
“Sure.”
“Meet me in front of the candy shop by Penn. I’ll be the one wearing...”
“A cape,” Anna finishes.
“Right.”

5pm, right on time, Anna sees him standing in front of the candy shop. His cape is black, lined with purple silk. He sword is hidden under the cape, but she knows it’s there. His hair is slicked back in that obnoxious, macho way. She looks for the scar above his eyebrow, just to make sure. It’s there, bright and ugly. She gets a flash of anger when she sees the scar and remembers how he got away the last time. She will not disappoint her crew again.

Cape guy stands there, waiting, expecting a beautiful single women who will fall madly in love with upon first sight, and he doesn’t even give a thought to explaining to a mere mortal why he lives underground and why he can crush a two ton SUV with his bare hands. He just wants a warm body in bed next to him when he comes home from a hard day trying to save the world.

Anna approaches him, her finger steady on the laser gun in the deep pocket of her fur coat. She can tell by the smarmy look on Captain Crusher’s face that he is still the shallow, egocentric man she once worked for, still the guy who thinks he can get by on just his looks and his bone-crushing abilities.

She gets within two feet of Crusher, slips her hand out of her pocket and aims the laser gun at him.

In an instant it’s over. The invisible laser has struck Crusher in his groin, the one place he doesn’t shield with laser-resistant lead. He always had this fear that the lead would make him impotent. Some super beings have an Achille’s heel. Crusher had an Achille’s dick.

As the rush-hour crowd hovers over Crusher, assuming that the crazy guy with the cape had some sort of stroke, Anna makes her way back down the stairs, into the deep of Penn Station.

Her crew will be pleased, indeed. But not as pleased as she.

Posted by at 01:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

Maybe you've never heard of Jane Barbe, but chances are, you've heard her voice.

"We're sorry, but the number you have reached...."

Posted by at 01:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (1)

While I was busy going crazy from lack of sleep over the weekend, I missed the opportunity to celebrate Mick Jagger's 60th birthday.

So how is that the icons of my youth are all almost as old as my father (62)? Funny, they never seemed the same age as dad back when I was buying their records and going to their concerts. They were supposed to be ageless and immortal. Rock stars don't become grandfathers. Rock stars don't end up in rocking chairs out on the veranda of some nursing home, talking back to people only they can see.

Well, of course none of that is true. You find out at some point in your youth that rock stars are human and they overdose on drugs or crash their cars into walls or expose themselves to young girls.

When you're young, you tend to see those musicians as they are on their posters and album covers. They are pretty and healthy and perfect. You eventually regret the day when you finally get up close to one of your idols and see that they have scars and zits and they scowl and curse at the roadies.

That's just the way the mind of a teenager works. Now, at almost 41, I look back on how simple my thinking was as a teen. How naive I was. Taken in by all the advertising and fan club newsletters and make up artists, I really believed on some level that rock stars were beyond human. There was something magical and mystical about them that afforded them the ability to look like they had been drinking from the fountain of youth.

I don't remember thinking that Mick Jagger was so close in age to my dad. Maybe I knew, but I pushed the thought away because that would make him old. Hey, when you're thirteen, anything over 25 is old.

And now I know better, I think. Sixty isn't old. Well, maybe it's too old to still have young girls, young enough to be your grandaughter, throwing their undies at you. But I