Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery
Monday, July 30, 2007
I'm once again being driven fucking insane because there's a song in my head that just refuses to goddamn come out.
We went to see a sneak preview of The Bourne Ultimatum last Thursday. They make you sign a statement swearing that you won't write anything about it, but I'll just go ahead and say it kicked fucking ass. I love these movies. I love that they don't insult your intelligence like some other summer action flicks I could name. I love the stunt work.
And I love the song that closes all of the movies out. As soon as the song kicks in over the last shot, I get all bouncy and excited. So this time I decided to download the song so that I could hear it whenever I want to and sort of recreate that Bourne excitement. Which is why there's now a Moby song on my iPod. And why that song is jammed on "repeat" in my fucking cranium.
To summarize, then: awesome movie. You should see it. Just don't listen to the end-credits song too much or you'll be cursing Moby' name and wanting to shove an ice-pick in your ear.
Wait...Who Are the Tuna?
I was listening to All Things Considered this afternoon and this story about health care came on.
In the story, we hear from President Bush and also from some guy who's working on health care reform. Naturally, I think Bush is utterly full of shit, but I'm very nearly driven to his side of the argument, because the guy speaking for the other side comes up with a tuna-related analogy for the health care situation and then he rides it until its legs are broken.
Give it a listen and see if it doesn't kind of make you want to go kill a dolphin.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Best. Episodes. Ever.
Unless you're living under a rock or are a senior official with the Bush Administration, you're probably aware that The Simpsons Movie is opening today. I'm stoked. I'm giddy with anticipation. I'm hyped up on coffee, too, so you can factor that in. I love this series, as all right-thinking people do. I've seen most every episode from the first, let's say, nine seasons at least a dozen times each. The last ten years or so, my viewership has been spottier, largely because the quality hasn't been equal to the glory days and I don't want my cherished memories tarnished.
And that's where I am this morning: basking in my cherished Simpsons memories. I've spent--literally--the last two hours looking through an episode guide and whittling down the vast amounts of genius to my favorite ten episodes. While this might sound, to some (hello, honey), like a colossal waste of time, it's actually something of a Herculean challenge.
After picking my top twenty--ten hours of television the repeats of which could sustain humanity through all eternity--I had to look deep, deep within my soul to find the episodes that mattered most to me. Eight leaped out right away. These are the eight episodes that, frankly, I cannot live without. If these episodes were removed from the face of the earth, my belief in the inherent goodness of humanity would be destroyed and I'd have to hang myself in grief.
That left me, though, with twelve. Twelve from which I could pick only two. It was like Sophie's Choice, but without Meryl Streep or Nazis. Eventually, with many tears and a couple of ham steaks, I did it. So here it is. My top ten Simpsons episodes ever. I have listed them in chronological order, because, having picked my top ten, I couldn't endure the further agony of having to rank them.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Brainless in Seattle
Maybe you've already read about this. Maybe not. I'll summarize: This dipshit was flying from Seattle to Memphis. Missed his flight.
Now, right off the bat, I've got no fucking sympathy for this prick. You miss your flight, it's your fault. It's not that hard to catch a flight. You simply get where you're supposed to be on time. Build in a little extra time for unforeseen delays. I have never in my life missed a flight. I've also had to spend an average of two extra hours sitting on my ass at the gate waiting for the plane to start boarding, but that's neither here nor there.
But this cheesedick didn't plan smartly. He missed his flight. Which is where normal people would maybe kick a chair, throw their luggage angrily to the floor or perhaps even skip right to the practical phase and begin making arrangements to get on the next possible flight.
Not our boy. No, he decides that the best course of action is to fake an act of terrorism, so he tells the airline officials that there's a bomb on board the plane. In our day and age, the airlines are required to take something like that seriously, even if the staff at the gate probably realize that the only real threat is that this guy's going to continue being an utter tool.
So they turn the plane around and bring it back to Sea-Tac so it can be checked for bombs. Meaning all the nice people who were just trying to get to Memphis--and who got to the fucking airport on time--had to cool their heels while the bomb-sniffing dogs and what-have-you did their thing.
Now, I'm not exactly sure what punishment has been meted out to this putz, but I'm going to go ahead and offer a suggestion: I think that the travelers whose trips he fucked up should each be allowed to kick him as hard as they want in the balls. And then I think the airline staff should each get to yank out one of his pubes with a pair of tweezers. I'm pretty sure he'd never pull shit like this again.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
The SEXIEST Hairshirt Horscope Ever
For some reason, the stars are awfully goddamn sexy at the moment. So the good folks here at the Hairshirt Horoscope have decided to provide each of the signs with the can't-miss pick-up lines guaranteed* this week to fill your bed with luscious, pliable flesh. Enjoy the unbridled carnality that's sure to ensue.
Aries: "Hey there. You ever wonder what it would be like to fuck a hermaphrodite?"
Taurus: "That looks like a good sandwich. What say I remove the corned beef, cheese and sauerkraut and crawl between those two slices of toasted rye so you can eat me like the sexiest Reuben that ever existed?"
Gemini: "My sensai taught me forty-seven ways to pleasure a woman using just my pinkie-toe. I'd like to show you number thirty-eight."
Cancer: "Yeah, baby, I'm a priest. And let me tell you: we just use the altar boys to practice our skillz. Aw, yeah."
Leo: "Those pants look good on you. They'd look even better on my bedroom floor, the implication being that you yourself were in my bedroom and had removed the pants for the purpose of sexual activity. I wouldn't want you to think that I was saying I'd like to purchase the pants and just leave them lying around my house."
Virgo: "Baby, I can rock you all night long. As long as rocking you involves sleep at some point."
Libra: "I have over ten thousand mint-condition comics at my place. Maybe you'd like to come over and read them with me. While naked."
Scorpio: "I didn't know angels could fly so low. Or that they'd ever wear something so hideous as six-inch plexiglass heels and a gold lame tubetop. Hey, am I gonna have to pay you?"
Sagittarius: "I just had an enema, so I'm ready for anything."
Capricorn: "Here's what I want: You. Me. A bedroom. Candles lit. Pat Boone records playing in the background. Let's get out of here."
Aquarius: "Ooo, baby, you set my crotch on fire. Put me out with your fire extinguisher of love. I hope it's a Class D extinguisher, because this fire is chemical in nature."
Pisces: "I can tie a cherry stem into a knot. With my vagina."
*Note: Hairshirt is not responsible for any venereal diseases that may result from use of these pick-up lines; nor do we guarantee the attractiveness of anyone who may be wooed with these words. Offer not available in Alaska.
Bush: Just Shy of Fascism?
Jesus fart-huffing Christ. This is getting so abso-goddamn-lutely sickening.
So the latest example of Bush pissing all over the constitution goes a little something like this: Congress subpoenaed Chief of Staff Josh Bolton and former White House Counsel Harriet "Name Withdrawn" Miers. The White House is saying that Bolton and Miers are exempt from having to testify. Because they are/were presidential advisers and everything that's said to the president has to be kept super, super secrety.
I was thinking about all this this morning in the shower and it hit me that the Bush administration resembles nothing so much as that one asshole kid who used to live in your neighborhood. You know the one I'm talking about; the kid who, when you and your friends would play shoot 'em up, would always deny that your shot hit him and inform you, furthermore, that he'd just invented a bullet-proof invisible shield and he'd just gained super-hypnosis powers so everyone else was now his slave.
See the rules, as they exist, apparently don't apply to George. Lo, he hath ascended to the right hand of God and he now rules o'er us all; we are subservient to his least whims.
This is getting fucking dangerous and scary. We need to send the Dog Whisperer in there to make this son of a bitch heel. 'Cause the Democrats sure as hell don't seem to be having any effect whatsoever.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Why Doesn't Hallmark Have a Card for This?
Yeah, so yesterday was my three-year blogiversary. I didn't even get my blog flowers or anything. My blog was cool about it, though. We didn't make a big deal of it. We just stayed in and made sweet, sweet love all night. Three years on and my blog and I still know how to make one another feel loved. Oh, blog. I'd choose a random Blogger template and create you all over again.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Thank You, I'll Be Here All Week
I don't know about you, but during my visits to Google News today, I was frequently confronted with articles with the following headline: "Bush's Polyps Benign".
Each time, my mind added, "...Bush Administration Malignant."
Sunday, July 22, 2007
All Good Things
Okay, so here's where I have to make kind of an embarrassing admission: the last post I wrote about the final Harry Potter book was, I'm sorry to tell you, a work of fiction. I do not, in reality, have a cousin named Bjorn. This non-existent cousin did not, then, steal me a copy of Deathly Hallows. In truth, none of the things I said happened in the book actually happened in the book. It was all one big lie. I'm ashamed.
I will say, though, that Voldemort is certainly Dick Cheney's brother in spirit, if not in fact.
That confession out of the way, I can now say that I totally ignored my wife yesterday (hi, honey! kisses and hugs!) and plowed through the book like a college freshman with his bottle of cut-rate tequila. Unlike your average freshman, though, I didn't end up puking all over my shoes in my friend's backseat outside of a dance club.
So, the book? Loved it. Most of what I figured would happen did, in fact, happen. But Rowling planted enough red herrings that I made a few incorrect guesses and was, happily, surprised a number of times.
I laughed. I cried. I cheered. Fortunately, I did this alone on my couch and not in public, where I'd have to worry what people thought of a 36-year-old man reading a children's book with snot pouring out of his nose.
Seriously, though, the book had more than its share of both "Oh, shit!" moments and "Oh, no!" moments. It also had one or two sections that maybe meandered a bit more than I would have liked, but I actually kind of appreciated them, as it was somewhat akin to that conversation you have in the doorway after your good friends have put their coats on but before they actually walk to their car and drive away. Wow. What a horrendously tortured analogy.
Anyway, I won't give anything away, except to say that, for me, this book cured me of the feeling that house elves were basically the Ewoks of the series, ruining my enjoyment with their cutesy/nauseating bullshit. And that's saying something.
Whew. I can now get on with my life. My sad and pathetic, non-magical life. Shit.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Up The Presidential Ass
I'd just like to take a second this morning to wish George W. Bush a happy colonoscopy. Truly nobody deserves to have something shoved up their ass more than our commander-in-chief.
I'm sure the entire country joins me in praying that he comes through it okay. 'Cause otherwise, we're stuck with President Vader.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Aries: An upsurge in your energy level could mean you're going to get a lot done this week, Aries. Or it could mean that you're entering your manic phase and just might stay up for three days straight, obsessively washing your hands to "get the blood off".
Taurus: Your sense of aesthetics is at its height this week, Taurus, which makes it a great time to appreciate art. And, no, porn doesn't count. Unless you know of a painting in which Degas depicted one of his ballerinas getting double-teamed by a couple of sailors.
Gemini: Pot pie! Pot pie! Pot pie! Pot pie! Pot Pie!
Cancer: Things are especially tranquil in your life this week, Cancer. To you, though, it feels like the calm before the storm. In actuality, you're just really fucking boring.
Leo: This is a great week to experiment, Leo. Maybe you could sign up for an evening class. Maybe you could cook an exciting new cuisine. Maybe you could see if you can go three whole days without masturbating while you watch your neighbor through your closed blinds.
Virgo: Your dream comes true this week with the release of Hairspray. Finally, the stars of Grease and Grease II come together in movie musical harmony.
Libra: You'll spend most of the weekend reading the new Harry Potter book. And the remainder of it all pissed off because nobody you know has finished it so you can fucking discuss it.
Scorpio: Finally! This is the week your Star Fleet uniform comes back from the cleaners.
Sagittarius: An intriguing invitation comes your way this week, Sagittarius, which leaves you feeling very honored and privileged. After all, it's not every Tom, Dick or Harry who's offered 15% off today's purchases if they open a new Sears Charge Account.
Capricorn: Now's the time for romance with your partner, Capricorn. So lube up and enjoy!
Aquarius: The end of a particularly important relationship leaves you in need of a Band-Aid for your heart, Aquarius. And you probably want to make sure you're putting Neosporin on there, too, or you could be looking at a nasty infection. So you might need to make a stop at the metaphorical drugstore on your way home from work today.
Pisces: It's a great week to travel, Pisces. Just be selective about the method of transportation.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
My God, Those Hallows Are Deathly!
I've mentioned before what a fan I am of the Harry Potter series. What I didn't mention is that my cousin Bjorn works for Scholastic, the company that publishes the American editions of the popular series. Now, it so happens that I attended Bjorn's bachelor party last month and was witness to several acts of indiscretion on Bjorn's part involving prostitutes, egg yolks and a trained seal. In exchange for my continued silence about these acts in front of Bjorn's new wife, he agreed to steal for me a copy of the manuscript of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. He accomplished this mission this past Friday, losing a testicle in the process. I won't go into details about this mishap, but I would like to offer further apologies to Bjorn's wife.
Anyway, thanks to Bjorn's selflessness--and my skills as a blackmailer--I have just finished reading all 784 pages. And let me say, I was not disappointed. I know the rest of the country is chomping at the bit for all the juicy details, so here are just a handful of the surprises contained within the concluding novel in the series:
Monday, July 16, 2007
Eight years ago, or thereabouts, a bunch of conservative jaggoffs got together and decided they'd just really embrace the idea of a legislature that does no actual legislating, but rather spends every minute of the work day attacking the other side. These phallus-slurping puke-rags had appointed themselves a full-time prosecutor whose job, basically, was to do nothing but look for something for which the President of the United States of America could be prosecuted. The man came up snake-eyes until, one day, he learned that the Commander-in-Chief had gotten a blow job from--and stuck a cigar in the cooter of--a dumpy-looking intern. And then lied and said he hadn't.
The above-mentioned conservative jaggoffs were in heaven. "Outrageous!" they cried. "Immoral!" they shrieked. "Criminal!" they called from their moral high-ground. Never mind the fact that so many of them would turn out to be closeted homosexuals or cheats or goat-fuckers. (That one hasn't been made public yet, but expect a press conference from Sam Brownback any day now.)
They took their indignation, added some cream of tartar and they whipped it until stiff peaks formed. They then used this flimsiest of all possible excuses ("He lied about a blowjob!") as the basis for only the third attempted impeachment of an American president in the history of our country, Andrew Johnson having been impeached for violating the Tenure of Office Act and Richard Nixon having faced impeachment hearings for Cavorting with the Devil.
I remember listening to the impeachment hearings, slack-jawed in disbelief that our nation's elected officials had been so consumed by their desire to "get the other guy" that they would ignore the problems facing the country so they could punish a man for getting sucked off.
Cut to eight years later and we've got a dude in the White House who has also fucked up and brought disgrace to his office. Only he did it by trumping up evidence to get us into a war that's cost us over 3500 soldiers. And by subverting the U.S. constitution. And by using his office to line the pockets of his friends. And by condoning torture. And by ignoring the will of the people. That sort of thing.
During all this, my stance on impeachment has been anti-. My thinking was that, if we attempt to impeach every goddamn president with whom we disagree, we lessen the impact of the action, we waste tax-payer money and lose focus on conducting the business of our country. I figured that, once the Democrats got hold of the legislature, they'd be able to undo some of the heinous shit that W. has wrought. (They haven't, but that's a whole other disgusting story.)
Then, this weekend, I watched the latest edition of Bill Moyers' Journal. Mr. Moyers had as his guests two men with generally opposing viewpoints, Bruce Fein and John Nichols. Mr. Fein worked in the Attorney General's office under Reagan and Mr. Nichols writes for The Nation. The kind of guys you'd figure got into a slapfight in the greenroom. But they both laid out very convincing cases for impeaching PoTUS.
They made any number of good points, but it all boils down to this: Bush and his Unified Executive Theorizers have stepped so far over the line that they no longer know where the fuck the line is. They have not only pushed the boundaries of the executive office, they've broken those boundaries all to hell. They have pissed all over the Constitution; they have mangled our system of checks and balances and they have used this power to highly unsavory ends.
If this gross abuse of power goes unchecked, say Mr. Fein and Mr. Nichols, we throw the door wide open to a basically totalitarian leader down the road.
This makes sense to me. Once Bush gets away with blurring these lines, the next guy doesn't have to worry about the lines any more. So I, for one, am ready to say it: impeach this fucking asshole. And impeach Cheney twice.
Friday, July 13, 2007
So, now that David Beckham and his wife are here, is there any way we can make them go back again?
They're just arriving and I'm already really fucking sick of them. There's coverage of their big move all over the goddamn news. There's--I wish I was joking about this--a TV special on NBC. I suppose it will be filled with all sorts of awesome tidbits like their confusion over the fact that we call a "lift" an "elevator".
Just because these two are the biggest celebrities in Britain, why does that mean we need to pay them the slightest bit of attention? You don't see a whole lot of Americans having canned mushrooms and beans with their breakfast, do you? Then why the hell do we need to buy into this nonsense?
Seriously, does anybody really expect this one guy and his anorexic mutant wife to make Americans give a shit about soccer? C'mon. We're already chock full of sports in which you can use your hands, thank you very much. I think soccer has found a very nice niche as "that sport your kids play that you have to sit through when you'd rather be home quietly downloading porn". To hell with soccer and to hell with these two.
Our tabloid magazines already have more than enough to cover, what with Paris and TomKat and all the other celebrity retards out there. We don't need the U.K. dumping these two on our shores. So my idea is this: let's all chip in and buy the Beckhams a plane ticket back to England so we can get on with our lives.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The Three Words That Best Describe Me Are As Follows, And I Quote...
New York City is fucking hot right now. How hot is it? It's so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk and then realize that you're out of sausage and get all pissed off at your spouse who was supposed to buy sausage but didn't. It's that hot.
Yesterday, my wife and I went for a run in that heat. We just did our normal run down the park. It's not that far; maybe three miles. It's kind of wussified, all things considered. But yesterday, in the heat, it was a bit more taxing than usual. And we got a bit sweatier than usual.
I, in particular, was sweatier than Colin Farrell waiting for the results of his HIV test. Sweatier than Dom Delouise walking up a hill. I was real fucking sweaty.
And it's good to sweat. It's nice to finish a run and feel like you've strained a bit. But, see, along with that sweat comes the stench.
I, in particular, smelled something less than fresh. I can put deodorant on with a trowel and, if I sweat as much as I did yesterday, I'll smell like a pound and a half of goat cheese that's been left behind the dryer for a week. Because the sweat, which isn't exactly rose water, runs all over my body and mixes with other stuff that all reeks and it all forms kind of a stew.
I smelled like a dirty litterbox stuffed with braunschweiger. I smelled like curried skunk farts. I smelled like Dick Cheney's soul. So of course my wife suggested we do some shopping.
New York retail clerks aren't the friendliest folks under the best conditions, never mind when the customer smells like he just crawled through a field of pig shit. So they made a brief initial attempt to offer me help in the store, but they quickly backed away like Nosferatu from bucket full of holy water. I quickly told my wife I'd wait for her outside.
I also pity the poor bastards who had to ride the subway home with us. I could see the goddamn stink lines coming off of me from 96th Street all the way home. It was the kind of stench that you'd normally expect to find emanating from the passed-out homeless dude with the dried puke on his shoes. I think one lady sitting near me actually held her breath for thirty blocks.
So I'm thinking that, when we run today, I'm going to bring a bar of soap and just jump into the fountain at Columbus Circle when we're done. I might be arrested, but it'd be a damn sight better than making a bunch of poor, helpless commuters vomit.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Just so I don't catch shit from my family, I feel I ought to point out that I was not actually on mushrooms when I wrote yesterday's first post. I have, in fact, never taken hallucinogenic mushrooms and would heartily discourage any youngsters reading this to eschew a life of drug consumption.
I was, instead, high on the joy one gets from eating fresh banana bread. Now that's a high I think we can all enjoy.
God, I need a drink.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
The Ol' Gag Reflex Kicks In
So I saw two really, really disgusting things today and I'm not sure which one was viler. (More vile? Fuller of vilosity?) Anyway, I'll let you be the judge.
The first disgusting thing was a Tupperware container that my wife brought back from work on Monday. She'd taken broccoli for lunch that day, but apparently only ate about half of it. Monday night was hellaciously busy, what with packing for her trip and all, so she didn't remember to put it in the refrigerator and she didn't alert me to its presence in the living room.
Today, then, I'm tidying up a bit for her return from Seattle. I suppose I could have tidied up before the day she was due back, but I find that extra bit of pressure really focuses me. I open up the lunch bag and notice that she's left the Tupperware in it. I carry it to the sink and get ready to dump out whatever's inside so I can wash it.
The first thing that his me was the stench. Broccoli doesn't smell all that goddamn pleasant when it's fresh, even. This was not fresh, though. This had had six days of eighty-degree weather in the living room to putrefy. That was gross. What was worse--oh, so much worse--was when I looked a little closer at the putrefied broccoli and noticed the maggots. I'm extremely thankful that I hadn't eaten anything prior to this discovery, because I would've puked it right into the kitchen sink.
So we're now down one piece of Tupperware, 'cause there was no way in hell that I was cleaning out the maggots. Once a maggot moves into something I own, my policy is to sign the deed over to them and put a tally on the loss board.
The second disgusting thing I saw today was Live Free or Die Hard.
Now, that one had no maggots. But neither did it have logic, believability or a coherent screenplay. It's like watching Bruce Willis take the rotten, moldering corpse of the first Die Hard and have noisy and violent sex with it. The maggots in that broccoli could make a better movie than this. And they have no opposable thumbs.
It's a close race, but I believe I have to say that the movie was the more disgusting of the two. Now, maybe if there'd been, like, a severed finger in the broccoli, that would've tipped the scales.
Helpful Hairshirt Household Hints
Have a few bananas that are past their prime? Well don't just pitch 'em! Make some delicious banana bread!
Here in the Wack household, we hate wasting food! That's why, if you stop by any Friday night, you'll find me in the kitchen, making my End of the Week Casserole. It's a handy way to stretch your budget and make sure that nothing goes to waste!
So don't look at it as a 'fridge full of left-overs, look at it as an opportunity for clever culinary creativity!
I'm on mushrooms! Wheeeee!
Friday, July 06, 2007
But Without The Cool Stretchy Powers
Short and to the point, folks: I fucked up. I was trimming my beard with my handy Norelco Beard-Master 9000. It's been awhile since my last haircut, so my sideburns were also looking a mite sloppy. I decided I'd do a little work on those, too.
But I'm not a barber. I don't have the kind of precise trimming skills of someone who's studied the tonsorial arts. So I ended up basically hacking the sideburns off completely, giving me the vague appearance of a Kim Jong Il wannabe.
Worse still, with the 'burns as short as they are, all that grey at my temples is much, much more noticeable, so I'm also kind of looking like Mr. Fantastic.
So the formula for my new look is something like this: + = ME
Sad, sad, sad.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Any holiday where I'm here and my wife is in another town automatically kind of blows. I don't want to fall into my usual wife-less whining; suffice it to say that I always miss her to distraction and never have as much fun without her.
That said, my Independence Day this year wasn't as bad as it might have been. I actually managed to motivate myself into going for a run yesterday morning, which left me pretty goddamned impressed with myself. I normally lack the willpower to get off the couch when my wife's gone, but I somehow made it happen yesterday.
Then there was ESPN's coverage of the Nathan's Famous Hot Dog Eating contest from Coney. I briefly entertained the notion of attending this event in person. Glad I was too lazy to go, too, because it looked to be a sea of sweaty humanity over there.
Anyway, I'm not normally one to watch anything where men are jamming meat tubes in their faces, but this one was truly a contest for the ages. Joey Chestnut managed to shove sixty-six hot dogs down his throat. Sixty-six hot dogs, people. Whatever your viewpoint on the relative merits of competitive hot dog eating, that's impressive. I feel like a foul, disgusting pig when I eat three of them.
And speaking of disgusting, I couldn't get enough slow motion replays of Takeru Kobayashi's last minute "reversal". Knowing that he would lose credit for any frankfurters he puked up, he worked really, really hard to jam the chunks-n-liquid back down his gullet. Yum.
I should point out that I was not sufficiently disgusted by this sight to keep me from enjoying a plateful of soy dogs later in the day.
The day was also kept from completely sucking by the fact that I got to see New Pornographers. Yeah, it rained. Yeah, my buddy Deni and I spent the first half hour or so of the concert sitting at the rear of the crowd, unable to see the stage and feeling too frail and elderly to push our way to the front. And, yeah, the band inexplicably failed to perform "Letter From an Occupant", the song that made me a slathering fan in the first place. But it kicked ass anyway. Actually, most of the band is Canadian, so they didn't so much kick ass as they politely placed their boot on the ass.
I won't mention the horrifying Cleveland Indians telecast that ended my day. Dammit.
Anyway, Happy Birthday, America. I didn't get you anything, but I did send an e-card.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Historical Hairshirt Horoscope
Folks, believe it or not, the Hairshirt Horoscope has been around for over 236 years. It was originally a feature in Ben Franklin's Poor Richard's Almanac, tucked in right behind the Tide Schedule. While looking through the Hairshirt Horoscope Archives at the Library of Congress last week, I happened upon this edition from July 4th, 1776 and I thought it might make a nice treat to reprint it on Independence Day. Enjoy.
Aries: This looks to be a very good day for Aries who want to declare something. So, if there's a person who's been riding you like Paul Revere rides his horse, this might be the time to say something about it. You might even want to consider putting it in writing.
Taurus: Health issues come to the fore this week for our Taurean friends. Fortunately, you live in an age wherein doctors have the common sense to wipe their scalpels on their sleeve between patients, so as not to contaminate you with someone else's foul humours.
Gemini: Your friends, Gemini, are too embarrassed to tell you that your wig is getting a little gamy. The fact is, there's a dead rat in it. Get a new wig, for Christ's sake.
Cancer: This week, Cancer, you find yourself utterly indignant about your oppression at the hands of the British monarchy. That King George is so damned oppressive. Also, you might have to deal with an uppity slave who resents you selling off his wife and children.
Leo: Leos are in for an incredibly entertaining week as someone in your household invents a hilarious new shadow puppet.
Virgo: You go a little crazy this week and close down the tavern, staggering home at the disreputable hour of 7:00 PM. You need to slow down a bit, Virgo.
Libra: Be careful about when you draw your drinking water from the river this week, Libra. Your upstream neighbor might be experiencing some gastrointestinal irregularity and you really don't want it to end up in your evening stew.
Scorpio: The expectant Scorpio parent might be losing sleep this week over the prospect of having to pay for the education of their offspring. Fret not, Scorpio. The stars indicate that you'll be having a baby girl. So go ahead and spend that nascent college fund on a sporty new horse.
Sagittarius: Lonely Sagittarian women might want to look for a more unconventional choice in physical partners. Now might be a good time to explore your erotic identity in the company of a man who lives outside of society's norms. Maybe someone who flies a kite during thunderstorms, say. That kind of gentleman is probably both discreet in public and wild in the sack.
Capricorn: Be careful how much mulled wine you consume this week, Capricorn. Important affairs are afoot and you wouldn't want to get drunk and embarrass yourself by, for example, writing your name on an important document five times larger than it needs to be.
Aquarius: Aquarians considering a move to the Western territories may be a trifle nervous vis-a-vis the heathen natives who dwell in those remote areas. Rest assured, gentle friends, that your government is doing everything it can to kill them before they hassle you.
Pisces: Enjoy your nice, quiet farm life while you can, Pisces. There's a good chance your friends are going to pressure you into fathering a country or something. What a drag.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Let's Lose Our Hearing!
I'm not a crowd person. Put me in a room that's packed wall-to-wall with people--stepping on each other's toes, spilling drinks on each other's shirts and wafting their body odor into each other's nostrils--and I will do my best to be in that room for as little time as humanly possible.
For this reason, I've never been a huge concert-goer. I love music and I'm always impressed when I see a good band live, but it so very often in my life just hasn't been worth the sardinian crowd experience just to listen to some songs I have on tape (or vinyl or disc or my iPod).
Maybe this has to do with the fact that my very first concert-going experience was an AC/DC show at the Richfield Coliseum. I don't love AC/DC. They're okay. Never one of my favorites, though. I went to see them because a whole bunch of my friends were going to see them and I had access to a car and they asked me to go. That shit was loud. Our seats, if memory serves, were right by the canons they fired off during "For Those About to Rock". Loud.
I then went to see Aerosmith, a band I utterly worshipped in high school. This was Permanent Vacation-era Aerosmith, so they were off heroin but still had enough residual drugs in their system that they hadn't started completely sucking. (Seriously, "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" was enough to make me forget how very much "Sweet Emotion" rocked.) It was a good show. Guns N' Roses opened for them. But I took a girl I was semi-dating at the time and she (being more of a Depeche Mode fan) was not happy and not shy about saying so, often.
After that awful twintroduction to concert-going, I have not lead a life filled with live music.
Things have been a little different since I moved to New York, though. See, everybody plays here. Which means that bands I'm seriously into are coming through town all the time.
Which brings me to this summer. There are so many concerts this summer that I really want to see. And the great thing is that half of them are goddamn free. I'm going to see New Pornographers tomorrow with tickets that cost me nothing! The Decemberists and Neko Case are playing (separate) concerts in Central Park this month. TV on the Radio is doing a free show in Brooklyn. They Might Be Giants are playing four Wednesday nights in a row at the Bowery Ballroom. Not for free, but not that pricey, either. I can't afford to see Fountains of Wayne, because they're playing with Squeeze at a venue where the cheapest ticket is more than my currently tiny wallet can afford, but there's so many other cool show that I'm not sobbing big gobby tears over it.
There's no real point to all of this about which I'm writing. Except maybe to thumb my nose at everyone and sing out with a "Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah! I'm going to these concerts!" So, to all my friends living in, say, Oklahoma City: Enjoy the Toby Keith show.
Monday, July 02, 2007
News Flash: Giant Douche Receives Get Out of Jail Free Card
Unfair. Totally unfair. How are White House staffers going to learn not to commit legal and ethical violations if there are no consequences to their illegal and unethical actions?
Allow me to make a suggestion: Libby does no jail time. Fine. What's done is done and he doesn't have to actually go behind bars. But I think he'd really learned his lesson if they sent a felon over to his house to beat the shit out of him once a week. And if a little anal rape happens while the felon is there, I think we should consider it part of the commuted sentence.
So congratulations, Scooter. You giant fucking douche.