![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
Those of you who know me know that I love puzzles. I spend a lot of time on logic puzzles and chess problems, and although I love the articles I really only subscribe to the Nation so I can do the cryptic crossword puzzles in the back. As far as the regular puzzles you get in the newspaper every day, it used to be a game at Calamity Café to give me a paper and see how quickly I could solve them (solved the jumble once in seven seconds).
My favorite kind of puzzle, though, is your standard bar trick. I love those because you generally have an audience, and I love an audience, and also because frequently you bet the trickster a drink that you can solve his puzzle. I find the prospect of free drinks to be an excellent motivator. I am proud to report that after spending most of my life in bars, and having seen probably 100 of these things, I have never failed to solve one.
I saw one today that I wanted to report to you guys. You start off with six quarters arranged in a pyramid like this:
_____0_____
____0_0____
___0_0_0___
You have to move them, one at a time, until they are arranged in a ring like this:
____00____
___0__0___
____00____
There are three rules for moving them: 1) you can only move one at a time (i.e. you can’t use the one you’re moving to push another); 2) you must slide the quarter, as opposed to picking it up; 3) at the end of each turn, the quarter you moved must be touching TWO other quarters. You have only four moves to accomplish this.
It’s pretty cool once you’ve figured it out. The funny thing is, though, that the solution I found was entirely new. It was not the one the guy showing the trick had expected, but it worked. So we know there are at least two possible solutions. You guys wanna give it a try? See if we can't find a third?
Oh, and I got this not from a bar, but from my newest podcast, called “Scam School.” It’s not only bar tricks. It also has simple cons, advice on picking locks, magic tricks...it's sort of a kinder/gentler Anarchist’s Cookbook, really. It’s on iTunes, and it’s free, so check it out, or go to their website.
My favorite kind of puzzle, though, is your standard bar trick. I love those because you generally have an audience, and I love an audience, and also because frequently you bet the trickster a drink that you can solve his puzzle. I find the prospect of free drinks to be an excellent motivator. I am proud to report that after spending most of my life in bars, and having seen probably 100 of these things, I have never failed to solve one.
I saw one today that I wanted to report to you guys. You start off with six quarters arranged in a pyramid like this:
_____0_____
____0_0____
___0_0_0___
You have to move them, one at a time, until they are arranged in a ring like this:
____00____
___0__0___
____00____
There are three rules for moving them: 1) you can only move one at a time (i.e. you can’t use the one you’re moving to push another); 2) you must slide the quarter, as opposed to picking it up; 3) at the end of each turn, the quarter you moved must be touching TWO other quarters. You have only four moves to accomplish this.
It’s pretty cool once you’ve figured it out. The funny thing is, though, that the solution I found was entirely new. It was not the one the guy showing the trick had expected, but it worked. So we know there are at least two possible solutions. You guys wanna give it a try? See if we can't find a third?
Oh, and I got this not from a bar, but from my newest podcast, called “Scam School.” It’s not only bar tricks. It also has simple cons, advice on picking locks, magic tricks...it's sort of a kinder/gentler Anarchist’s Cookbook, really. It’s on iTunes, and it’s free, so check it out, or go to their website.
- Where my body's at:704
- What I'm diggin' now:The Replacements, "Nightclub Jitters"
Just wanted to point out that, when I hit the “submit” button for this post, it will be the 56th second of the 34th minute after noon. At that time, it will be 12:34:56 7/8/9, which is not quite as cool as it was nineteen years ago (12:34:56 7/8/90) but will do for neatness. It isn’t important, but since I won’t live to see this happen again, I thought I would mention it. Happy “the time and date line up in order from one to nine day” everybody!
- Where my body's at:Planet M
- What I'm diggin' now:My History Can Beat Up Your Politics
Those of you who have only known me since I moved to Huntington don’t think of me as a football fan, I expect. I’ve only watched a few games since I moved here. The last one, I think, was the Super Bowl a few years ago between Pittsburgh and Seattle; my brother is a big Steelers fan, so I went and got drunk and cheered them on with him. I’ve watched probably a total of four or five games in the last several years, just because they happened to be on in the bar. I don't care about the game.
Before I moved here, though, I was really into football. I had an encyclopedic knowledge of players and stats going back to the forties, knew all the coaches, all the strategies. I was a fan of the Cleveland/Los Angeles/St. Louis Rams. In the seventies and eighties that was a pretty good life. We were always competitive, even though we didn’t win any titles, and there were always players to get excited about. I still have fond memories of Jack Youngblood and Eric Dickerson, Henry Ellard and Nolan Cromwell, Jerry Gray and Jackie Slater.
Then came the nineties, and suddenly we couldn’t win to save our lives. The whole decade, we were the worst team in football, a league-wide joke. They called us the “Lambs.” By 1999, I was mostly scar tissue from all the losing. Even the Bengals were better than us.
But then, in 1999, something magical happened. We drafted Tory Holt at WR to put across from Isaac Bruce, our lone All-Star who had suffered through some of the leanest years in pro football history. We traded for Marshall Faulk, the league’s smartest player and most dangerous runner. Our starting QB was lost for the year before the season even started, and our backup jumped into the starting lineup. His name was Kurt Warner, a nobody who had been bagging groceries in Iowa a few months before, and he began what looks like a Hall of Fame career. We cruised through the regular season with the most prolific and explosive offense the NFL had ever seen, and finally won our first championship since my father was in diapers. It was the greatest turnaround in pro sports history.
And, see, that’s why I stopped watching football. Nothing could ever be that good again. I tried to stay into it for a year or two, but it wasn’t sweet anymore. I had lost my dream, not by giving up on it, but by getting what I had wanted.
So, that night, January 30, 2000, was the last night I really enjoyed a football game. And what a game it was! We were playing the Tennessee Titans, the only team that had really beaten us all year long (we lost our last two regular season games while resting our starters, having already secured the home field). They, too, were a turnaround team, though they had never been as bad as us. They won on the strength of a tremendous defense and a piledriver of a runner named Eddie George, but they had something else. They had a kid at quarterback, like Warner in his first season as a starter. He was untested, rough, but supremely talented. His name was Steve McNair.
For three quarters we dominated the Titans, driving up and down the field, but they managed to keep us out of the end zone, and after three field goals we led only 9-0, despite having something like a 5-to-1 advantage in yards gained. Finally we broke through with a touchdown late in the third to make it 16-0, and the Titans finally abandoned their conservative game plan and turned McNair loose.
He was unstoppable. In my memory every play is the same; McNair drops back to pass, but our pash rush (the league’s best that season) would instantly collapse the pocket. Any other quarterback would be crushed under a pile of blue-clad bodies, but McNair would just step casually outside the rush. He was as untouchable as a ghost, and Ram after Ram flew past him grasping at empty air. Occasionally one would get to him, but McNair, as big and strong as any linebacker, would casually shrug him off like he was removing a raincoat and get back to business. He looked like a man among children. Sometimes he would scramble for a first down, sometimes he’d throw impossible, scrambling passes across his body to the other sideline, sometimes he’d find a man open far downfield. In this way he led them to two touchdowns (one with a missed conversion attempt) and a field goal to tie the game at 16.
But the league’s top offense had one more trick up its sleeve. On the very first play of our next drive, Warner, the nobody from Iowa, hit long-suffering Isaac Bruce for a lightning-bolt 73-yard touchdown, making the score 23-16. And so McNair walked onto the field one last time, two minutes to play and the whole season hanging in the balance.
So what did he do? The same thing he’d been doing, rolling out, scrambling, staying alive ‘til he could find the open man. He drove the Titans right down the field, with me screaming at my television “Jesus Christ, somebody tackle that man!” On the last play of the game, McNair hit Kevin Dyson on a crossing route inside the five, but linebacker Mike Davis made a miraculous tackle at the one as time ran out, and the Rams were (barely) world champions. Best Super Bowl ever.
I was elated, of course, but mostly relieved. It was very, very clear to me how lucky we were that football games are only 60 minutes long. That kid walked off the field without a trophy, without a ring, but he’d taken everything we could throw at him and just shouldered it aside, and had ended up a mere 36 inches from a title. We had won, but it was like they used to say about Bobby Layne, the great Detroit QB: he was never beaten, he just occasionally ran out of time.
Like I say, after that I never really enjoyed football again, and eventually stopped watching altogether, and so when I read this morning that McNair was murdered by his girlfriend this weekend, I was surprised at how moved I was by the news. I haven’t followed the game for years. I don’t know which team has his contract right now, or even whether he’s still on a roster anywhere in the league. At first glance it doesn’t make sense that this should affect me.
But the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. It’s a shock, because it can’t be possible that anything could have killed him. That game, that last great game, is frozen in time for me. It was my last football game, and he was the hero of the story even in defeat. When I hear his name, I don’t think of whoever he has become over the last nine years. In my mind he is still that indestructible kid, powerful, unbowed, fearless. In my memory, forever, nobody can lay a hand on him.
Before I moved here, though, I was really into football. I had an encyclopedic knowledge of players and stats going back to the forties, knew all the coaches, all the strategies. I was a fan of the Cleveland/Los Angeles/St. Louis Rams. In the seventies and eighties that was a pretty good life. We were always competitive, even though we didn’t win any titles, and there were always players to get excited about. I still have fond memories of Jack Youngblood and Eric Dickerson, Henry Ellard and Nolan Cromwell, Jerry Gray and Jackie Slater.
Then came the nineties, and suddenly we couldn’t win to save our lives. The whole decade, we were the worst team in football, a league-wide joke. They called us the “Lambs.” By 1999, I was mostly scar tissue from all the losing. Even the Bengals were better than us.
But then, in 1999, something magical happened. We drafted Tory Holt at WR to put across from Isaac Bruce, our lone All-Star who had suffered through some of the leanest years in pro football history. We traded for Marshall Faulk, the league’s smartest player and most dangerous runner. Our starting QB was lost for the year before the season even started, and our backup jumped into the starting lineup. His name was Kurt Warner, a nobody who had been bagging groceries in Iowa a few months before, and he began what looks like a Hall of Fame career. We cruised through the regular season with the most prolific and explosive offense the NFL had ever seen, and finally won our first championship since my father was in diapers. It was the greatest turnaround in pro sports history.
And, see, that’s why I stopped watching football. Nothing could ever be that good again. I tried to stay into it for a year or two, but it wasn’t sweet anymore. I had lost my dream, not by giving up on it, but by getting what I had wanted.
So, that night, January 30, 2000, was the last night I really enjoyed a football game. And what a game it was! We were playing the Tennessee Titans, the only team that had really beaten us all year long (we lost our last two regular season games while resting our starters, having already secured the home field). They, too, were a turnaround team, though they had never been as bad as us. They won on the strength of a tremendous defense and a piledriver of a runner named Eddie George, but they had something else. They had a kid at quarterback, like Warner in his first season as a starter. He was untested, rough, but supremely talented. His name was Steve McNair.
For three quarters we dominated the Titans, driving up and down the field, but they managed to keep us out of the end zone, and after three field goals we led only 9-0, despite having something like a 5-to-1 advantage in yards gained. Finally we broke through with a touchdown late in the third to make it 16-0, and the Titans finally abandoned their conservative game plan and turned McNair loose.
He was unstoppable. In my memory every play is the same; McNair drops back to pass, but our pash rush (the league’s best that season) would instantly collapse the pocket. Any other quarterback would be crushed under a pile of blue-clad bodies, but McNair would just step casually outside the rush. He was as untouchable as a ghost, and Ram after Ram flew past him grasping at empty air. Occasionally one would get to him, but McNair, as big and strong as any linebacker, would casually shrug him off like he was removing a raincoat and get back to business. He looked like a man among children. Sometimes he would scramble for a first down, sometimes he’d throw impossible, scrambling passes across his body to the other sideline, sometimes he’d find a man open far downfield. In this way he led them to two touchdowns (one with a missed conversion attempt) and a field goal to tie the game at 16.
But the league’s top offense had one more trick up its sleeve. On the very first play of our next drive, Warner, the nobody from Iowa, hit long-suffering Isaac Bruce for a lightning-bolt 73-yard touchdown, making the score 23-16. And so McNair walked onto the field one last time, two minutes to play and the whole season hanging in the balance.
So what did he do? The same thing he’d been doing, rolling out, scrambling, staying alive ‘til he could find the open man. He drove the Titans right down the field, with me screaming at my television “Jesus Christ, somebody tackle that man!” On the last play of the game, McNair hit Kevin Dyson on a crossing route inside the five, but linebacker Mike Davis made a miraculous tackle at the one as time ran out, and the Rams were (barely) world champions. Best Super Bowl ever.
I was elated, of course, but mostly relieved. It was very, very clear to me how lucky we were that football games are only 60 minutes long. That kid walked off the field without a trophy, without a ring, but he’d taken everything we could throw at him and just shouldered it aside, and had ended up a mere 36 inches from a title. We had won, but it was like they used to say about Bobby Layne, the great Detroit QB: he was never beaten, he just occasionally ran out of time.
Like I say, after that I never really enjoyed football again, and eventually stopped watching altogether, and so when I read this morning that McNair was murdered by his girlfriend this weekend, I was surprised at how moved I was by the news. I haven’t followed the game for years. I don’t know which team has his contract right now, or even whether he’s still on a roster anywhere in the league. At first glance it doesn’t make sense that this should affect me.
But the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. It’s a shock, because it can’t be possible that anything could have killed him. That game, that last great game, is frozen in time for me. It was my last football game, and he was the hero of the story even in defeat. When I hear his name, I don’t think of whoever he has become over the last nine years. In my mind he is still that indestructible kid, powerful, unbowed, fearless. In my memory, forever, nobody can lay a hand on him.
- Where my body's at:Planet M
- ...but my soul is:
contemplative - What I'm diggin' now:Dar Williams, "It Happens Every Day"
Lemme start by saying that I strongly dislike Mark Sanford. I think he’s a demagogue, an opportunist who is happy to sacrifice the welfare of the people of his state (particularly schoolchildren) to his own ambition. I find him extraordinarily cynical and willing to use specious reasoning and historical revisionism to get his way. In short, he strikes me as a bad governor and a bad man.
And, you know, the runup to Sanford’s confession was bizarre, and I followed it with some interest (though these days I can spare little attention for anything besides Iran). It was funny, the whole “he’s missing/he’s off writing/he’s in Atlanta/he’s hiking the Appalachian Trail/he’s in Argentina” thing. It was very off-the-wall, as is the man himself, and when I heard yesterday morning that the truth was coming out, that he was having an affair with a woman in Argentina (?!?), it promised to be the sort of entertaining news story that makes news-watching fun.
I’ve always felt that the personal lives of politicians should be considered separately from their work, the same as I feel about writers or musicians. There are plenty of reasons to dislike Sanford without digging into his relationships. But this story was just so odd, so over-the-top, that I confess to feeling a little charge of interest and even pleasure yesterday.
That changed when I started paying attention to the coverage. I don’t like the glee with which newspeople are springing on him right now. I don’t like that his hometown paper printed the e-mails Sanford sent to his lover, which are nobody’s business but theirs and should never have been published. I especially dislike the reading of these e-mails that Keith Olbermann gave on last night’s Countdown, in a voice that suggested he was auditioning to be Danielle Steele’s official audiobook narrator. I ended up fast-forwarding past them but saw enough to be very disappointed in Olbermann. I wanted to say to him, “Keith, have you never been in love?” I can’t imagine that any man of conscience (as KO seems to be) would air this and make light of it if he had ever felt this way himself.
More than that, I was impressed by Sanford’s press conference. Not “impressed” in the way people usually mean that word, but in the sense that it changed the way I looked at the whole thing. I mean, it was meandering and crazy, of course. Did anyone understand that whole “self” thing? It was so convoluted I can’t even quote it. But it was also very genuine, very honest, I thought, from a man not known for his honesty. I am not arguing that he deserves credit for being honest, and it doesn’t in any way absolve him. Still, he spoke extemporaneously, from the heart (unless he’s both far smarter and a better actor than I’ve previously given him credit for), and it meant something to me as I watched it. Compared to, say, John Ensign or Elliot Spitzer, he sounded human. He sounded lost.
Anyway, the point is this: I still dislike him just as much as I did yesterday, but what I saw up there was…well, a man in crisis, a man who doesn’t know where to turn or what to do, and it might sound dumb, but I’m just not comfortable laughing at a man in that position.
He’s lost his position with the RGA. He isn’t going to be President, or at least no time soon. He might even step down as Governor. And of course it goes without saying that his private life is in shambles. All of that is perfectly proper, and doesn’t cause me sorrow. Also, Sanford’s hypocrisy isn’t lost on me, and I understand the schadenfreude everyone’s feeling. It’s just that yesterday we all thought this was really funny. Today most still do, but me, I just don’t anymore.
And, you know, the runup to Sanford’s confession was bizarre, and I followed it with some interest (though these days I can spare little attention for anything besides Iran). It was funny, the whole “he’s missing/he’s off writing/he’s in Atlanta/he’s hiking the Appalachian Trail/he’s in Argentina” thing. It was very off-the-wall, as is the man himself, and when I heard yesterday morning that the truth was coming out, that he was having an affair with a woman in Argentina (?!?), it promised to be the sort of entertaining news story that makes news-watching fun.
I’ve always felt that the personal lives of politicians should be considered separately from their work, the same as I feel about writers or musicians. There are plenty of reasons to dislike Sanford without digging into his relationships. But this story was just so odd, so over-the-top, that I confess to feeling a little charge of interest and even pleasure yesterday.
That changed when I started paying attention to the coverage. I don’t like the glee with which newspeople are springing on him right now. I don’t like that his hometown paper printed the e-mails Sanford sent to his lover, which are nobody’s business but theirs and should never have been published. I especially dislike the reading of these e-mails that Keith Olbermann gave on last night’s Countdown, in a voice that suggested he was auditioning to be Danielle Steele’s official audiobook narrator. I ended up fast-forwarding past them but saw enough to be very disappointed in Olbermann. I wanted to say to him, “Keith, have you never been in love?” I can’t imagine that any man of conscience (as KO seems to be) would air this and make light of it if he had ever felt this way himself.
More than that, I was impressed by Sanford’s press conference. Not “impressed” in the way people usually mean that word, but in the sense that it changed the way I looked at the whole thing. I mean, it was meandering and crazy, of course. Did anyone understand that whole “self” thing? It was so convoluted I can’t even quote it. But it was also very genuine, very honest, I thought, from a man not known for his honesty. I am not arguing that he deserves credit for being honest, and it doesn’t in any way absolve him. Still, he spoke extemporaneously, from the heart (unless he’s both far smarter and a better actor than I’ve previously given him credit for), and it meant something to me as I watched it. Compared to, say, John Ensign or Elliot Spitzer, he sounded human. He sounded lost.
Anyway, the point is this: I still dislike him just as much as I did yesterday, but what I saw up there was…well, a man in crisis, a man who doesn’t know where to turn or what to do, and it might sound dumb, but I’m just not comfortable laughing at a man in that position.
He’s lost his position with the RGA. He isn’t going to be President, or at least no time soon. He might even step down as Governor. And of course it goes without saying that his private life is in shambles. All of that is perfectly proper, and doesn’t cause me sorrow. Also, Sanford’s hypocrisy isn’t lost on me, and I understand the schadenfreude everyone’s feeling. It’s just that yesterday we all thought this was really funny. Today most still do, but me, I just don’t anymore.
- Where my body's at:Planet M
- ...but my soul is: confused
- What I'm diggin' now:Mighty Lemon Drops, "Fall Down Like the Rain"
It’s LJ user account renewal time!!! Which, of course, means my five new userpics for the year are up! Well, four. I thought I’d made five, but I must have lost track somewhere in there. But, you know, that’s actually pretty awesome, ‘cause it means I can now sit down and think of what the fifth one should be.
This is my favorite time of year, outside of early April.
Anyway, without further ado, here are the four new ones:
( Since it's pictures, I've put it under a cut to save your pages. )
This is my favorite time of year, outside of early April.
Anyway, without further ado, here are the four new ones:
( Since it's pictures, I've put it under a cut to save your pages. )
- Where my body's at:Planet Motherfucker
- ...but my soul is:
I love the colorful paw prints - What I'm diggin' now:Beethoven's ninth...hey, maybe a nice Clockwork Orange userpic!
The Goblin was always my favorite Marvel villain (the comic in which he died was probably the most memorable of my childhood), and now it’s been announced that the follow-up to the excellent video game Marvel Ultimate Alliance will include him as a playable character. I wasn’t sure at first whether or not to be excited about this. I mean, he was included in the Spider-Man: Friend or Foe? Game, too. That wasn’t a bad game, really, although it was not in the same league with MUA. The Goblin specifically, though, was no fun at all to play, mostly because he didn’t have his glider.
Well, as this new clip plainly shows, the upcoming Goblin is glider-positive. And as they’ve shown with the two X-Men Legends games and the first MUA, Raven, the company that makes these games, knows what they’re doing when they adapt superheroes and villains to the Playstation. They actually get it, which puts them among an unfortunately small minority.
I think he looks awesome. I don’t know if any of you guys are into comic book-based video games (or video games at all, really), but I had to share this trailer, ‘cause I’m getting very up at the prospect of playing this character. The whole game is turning me on, frankly, even though it doesn’t come out ‘til September. I might be posting more trailers in the future, just to have an outlet for my excitement. Watch this space, if you give a shit, but for now, just enjoy the Green Goblin kicking a little ass:
Well, as this new clip plainly shows, the upcoming Goblin is glider-positive. And as they’ve shown with the two X-Men Legends games and the first MUA, Raven, the company that makes these games, knows what they’re doing when they adapt superheroes and villains to the Playstation. They actually get it, which puts them among an unfortunately small minority.
I think he looks awesome. I don’t know if any of you guys are into comic book-based video games (or video games at all, really), but I had to share this trailer, ‘cause I’m getting very up at the prospect of playing this character. The whole game is turning me on, frankly, even though it doesn’t come out ‘til September. I might be posting more trailers in the future, just to have an outlet for my excitement. Watch this space, if you give a shit, but for now, just enjoy the Green Goblin kicking a little ass:
- Where my body's at:Planet M
- ...but my soul is:
excited - What I'm diggin' now:Jane's Addiction, "Ted, Just Admit It"
David Carradine just died! In Bangkok! Which seems like an appropriate spot, now that I think about it.
Yes, he could sometimes seem ridiculous, and yes, he only became famous because racist TV producers didn’t think Americans would watch a show starring a Chinese guy (Bruce Lee), but he was still one of my very favorite people. Be honest, you guys love Kung Fu, right? How could you not? I know I wasn’t the only kid in the seventies walking around his neighborhood in his pajamas, kicking the living crap out of imaginary bad guys and saying what seemed like really deep things in a really soft voice. Come on, admit it.
Okay, everybody knows what this means, right? Whiskey, weeping, and a serious Kung Fu marathon. Who’s in? Meet at my place this weekend.
Yes, he could sometimes seem ridiculous, and yes, he only became famous because racist TV producers didn’t think Americans would watch a show starring a Chinese guy (Bruce Lee), but he was still one of my very favorite people. Be honest, you guys love Kung Fu, right? How could you not? I know I wasn’t the only kid in the seventies walking around his neighborhood in his pajamas, kicking the living crap out of imaginary bad guys and saying what seemed like really deep things in a really soft voice. Come on, admit it.
Okay, everybody knows what this means, right? Whiskey, weeping, and a serious Kung Fu marathon. Who’s in? Meet at my place this weekend.
- Where my body's at:Planet M
- What I'm diggin' now:Metallica, "Harvester of Sorrow"
There’s this guy who used to be my brother’s best friend, and was also a friend of mine when I was young. We ran across each other on Facebook recently, and have been having dueling status messages on account of his having grown into a Rushian and me being big both on social programs and personal liberty, neither of which is big with the dittoheads. His status message today, though, was this sparkling something that felt like it fell whole out of the script from A Clockwork Orange:
Maybe it’s just because I don’t know what he meant by “box,” “jarts,” or “fraggles,” but to me that sentence just seemed like pure poetry.
I’m not saying that staying in the box for a week is making me crazy or anything but I just finished playing jarts with a group of disgruntled fraggles.
Maybe it’s just because I don’t know what he meant by “box,” “jarts,” or “fraggles,” but to me that sentence just seemed like pure poetry.
- Where my body's at:Planet Motherfucker
- ...but my soul is: inspired
- What I'm diggin' now:R.E.M. "Cuyahoga"
Okay, maybe this is nitpicking, and I had resisted bringing it up, but it bothers me, and since the nomination of Sonia Sotomayor to the Supreme Court, I’ve been hearing it too much to keep quiet about it.
Sonia Sotomayor is not a “Latina woman.” She is Latina. Spanish is a gendered language, so ALL Latinas are women. That’s what the “a” on the end means. Adding “woman” to the description is superfluous, and it grates just as bad on the ear as when someone mentions an ATM machine or a PIN number. If you simply must include “woman” in your description of her, say “Hispanic woman,” but otherwise all you have to say is Latina.
She certainly is not, as the President called her, a “Latino woman.” That’s not superfluous, it’s completely wrong. Latino is masculine, Latina is feminine, and none of this is in any way complicated. If you’re gonna make your living talking or writing, you really ought to learn this stuff.
Sonia Sotomayor is not a “Latina woman.” She is Latina. Spanish is a gendered language, so ALL Latinas are women. That’s what the “a” on the end means. Adding “woman” to the description is superfluous, and it grates just as bad on the ear as when someone mentions an ATM machine or a PIN number. If you simply must include “woman” in your description of her, say “Hispanic woman,” but otherwise all you have to say is Latina.
She certainly is not, as the President called her, a “Latino woman.” That’s not superfluous, it’s completely wrong. Latino is masculine, Latina is feminine, and none of this is in any way complicated. If you’re gonna make your living talking or writing, you really ought to learn this stuff.
- Where my body's at:704
- ...but my soul is:
aggravated - What I'm diggin' now:The Church, "Tantalized"
Mama just sent me this picture, which I thought I’d share with you guys. My paternal grandparents had four children. One of these remained childless, but the other three combined with various spouses to produce seven grandchildren. We cousins all spent a lot of time together; in addition to ordinary family gatherings, we frequently lived communally as one or another group of parents ran out of rent money. This closeness amongst us makes it very surprising that this photograph, taken on Christmas Day 1978, seems to be the only one out there of all seven of us together.
The breakdown of who’s who, in descending order by age: that’s me, the oldest, in the red shirt with my arms around two of the cousins. The one in the center, the one I embrace with my right arm, is my cousin Jacob. My left arm is around Eddie, whose death in 1990 prevents any other picture like this one ever being taken. Next in line was my brother Teddy, wearing his then-ubiquitous red-and-blue striped shirt. Then came my first cousin Joe (Winters), alone on the far left of the picture. Next was my second cousin Joe (Parsons), father of the Biscuits, on the right. Finally we got a girl into the mix with the birth of my sister Debby, center front.
I was born in April of 1971, and Debby was born in January of 1976. Seven babies born to three mothers in less than five years, quite a bit of activity on the part of our parents, huh?
The breakdown of who’s who, in descending order by age: that’s me, the oldest, in the red shirt with my arms around two of the cousins. The one in the center, the one I embrace with my right arm, is my cousin Jacob. My left arm is around Eddie, whose death in 1990 prevents any other picture like this one ever being taken. Next in line was my brother Teddy, wearing his then-ubiquitous red-and-blue striped shirt. Then came my first cousin Joe (Winters), alone on the far left of the picture. Next was my second cousin Joe (Parsons), father of the Biscuits, on the right. Finally we got a girl into the mix with the birth of my sister Debby, center front.
I was born in April of 1971, and Debby was born in January of 1976. Seven babies born to three mothers in less than five years, quite a bit of activity on the part of our parents, huh?
- Where my body's at:Planet Motherfucker
- ...but my soul is: nostalgic
- What I'm diggin' now:The Three Musketeers
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote on here about a question Bill O’Reilly asked on his show about whether we really wanted to turn the United States into Sweden. My answer, in case you missed it then, was “Yes! Are we voting on this? Then I vote yes. Yes, please. Can I vote more than once? Yes yes yes. Yes infinity plus one. When do we start?”
Fridays are sort of relaxed days here on Planet M, and I get to spend some time catching up on world news (my life is so much better since I discovered the internet). While trolling The Local, an English-language Swedish newspaper, I came upon the story of Mats Melbin, CEO of Örnalp Unozon. Or rather, he used to be the CEO. He got laid off this week. You know who laid him off? He did. Hisownself.
He’d laid off a couple of dozen workers at the beginning of the year, but apparently that troubled his conscience. So when the investment company that owns the majority share of Örnalp Unozon informed him that they wanted him to lay off half of his remaining employees, he advocated instead for cutting back their hours to save money. But when the big bosses wouldn’t go for that, he resigned rather than follow their orders. Think about that for minute, won’t you? A CEO who considers the well-being of his employees more important than his own or that of his shareholders.
Two points:
1. Name an American CEO who would do that. Can anyone even imagine such a thing?
2. On that whole “turning America into Sweden” thing, can we get busy doing that, please?
Fridays are sort of relaxed days here on Planet M, and I get to spend some time catching up on world news (my life is so much better since I discovered the internet). While trolling The Local, an English-language Swedish newspaper, I came upon the story of Mats Melbin, CEO of Örnalp Unozon. Or rather, he used to be the CEO. He got laid off this week. You know who laid him off? He did. Hisownself.
He’d laid off a couple of dozen workers at the beginning of the year, but apparently that troubled his conscience. So when the investment company that owns the majority share of Örnalp Unozon informed him that they wanted him to lay off half of his remaining employees, he advocated instead for cutting back their hours to save money. But when the big bosses wouldn’t go for that, he resigned rather than follow their orders. Think about that for minute, won’t you? A CEO who considers the well-being of his employees more important than his own or that of his shareholders.
Two points:
1. Name an American CEO who would do that. Can anyone even imagine such a thing?
2. On that whole “turning America into Sweden” thing, can we get busy doing that, please?
- Where my body's at:Planet M
- ...but my soul is: hopeful
- What I'm diggin' now:Talking Heads, "Once in a Lifetime"
This dude really couldn't be any more fucked.
- Where my body's at:Planet Motherfucker
- ...but my soul is:
worried - What I'm diggin' now:The Police, "Walking in Your Footsteps"
So I’m watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Not the campy and excellent movie, but the T.V. show. I tried it about a year ago, watched the first DVD of the first season, and was totally unimpressed, so I gave up. But, you know, I love Firefly with all my heart, and there are so many folks who just worship the show, that I thought I’d give it another try. A friend who’s a fan said that the show really does start kind of slow, so maybe I shouldn’t start at the beginning. He suggested Season Three.
Well, he was right. I did enjoy it, and so from there I went back to the beginning. The first season starts off rocky, but it gets better, and I dug it second time around. Then I got the second season, and that’s when I really fell for it. In the first place I had always hated Angel. I mean, I really and truly hated Angel, so from that perspective Season Two was definitely for me. But the best thing that happened is that Spike and Drusilla came into my life. I LOOOOOVE Spike and Drusilla. Together, they make one seriously cool bad guy.
That’s the thing, though; you need them to be together. Spike is nowhere near as cool without Drusilla. I already knew this from his lone solo appearance in the third season. You need their chattering back and forth in their fake British accents. You need their morbid sexuality. You need his arrogance, but to balance it you need the way he always tempers it in deference to her instability.
So I put in the first disc for the fourth season, and there’s Spike right on the menu, and I’m very excited. And then out comes Spike with his girlfriend… HARMONY?!?!? I mean, at least he’s treating her bad, but come on, Harmony? Really?
I swear, if she doesn’t die, and Dru doesn’t come back, I’m giving up on this series for good.
UPDATE: Not dead yet. This series is in bad trouble.
Well, he was right. I did enjoy it, and so from there I went back to the beginning. The first season starts off rocky, but it gets better, and I dug it second time around. Then I got the second season, and that’s when I really fell for it. In the first place I had always hated Angel. I mean, I really and truly hated Angel, so from that perspective Season Two was definitely for me. But the best thing that happened is that Spike and Drusilla came into my life. I LOOOOOVE Spike and Drusilla. Together, they make one seriously cool bad guy.
That’s the thing, though; you need them to be together. Spike is nowhere near as cool without Drusilla. I already knew this from his lone solo appearance in the third season. You need their chattering back and forth in their fake British accents. You need their morbid sexuality. You need his arrogance, but to balance it you need the way he always tempers it in deference to her instability.
So I put in the first disc for the fourth season, and there’s Spike right on the menu, and I’m very excited. And then out comes Spike with his girlfriend… HARMONY?!?!? I mean, at least he’s treating her bad, but come on, Harmony? Really?
I swear, if she doesn’t die, and Dru doesn’t come back, I’m giving up on this series for good.
UPDATE: Not dead yet. This series is in bad trouble.
- Where my body's at:704
- ...but my soul is: contemptuous
- What I'm diggin' now:Spike without Drusilla
I am not precisely sure what the artist was trying to say here, but I suspect it’s kind of ugly. Maybe, though, it’s satire that’s just too clever for me. Maybe I just don’t get it. That does happen.
Be sure to scroll all the way through to the end, to the nice photo of him with his girls. Also, my Acrobat reader doesn’t work…would someone click on the “press release” link at the bottom of the screen and report what it says to me? ‘Cause I really want to know how the artist explained this to the papers.
Be sure to scroll all the way through to the end, to the nice photo of him with his girls. Also, my Acrobat reader doesn’t work…would someone click on the “press release” link at the bottom of the screen and report what it says to me? ‘Cause I really want to know how the artist explained this to the papers.
- Where my body's at:704
- What I'm diggin' now:Led Zeppelin, "Dancing Days"
I have never been able to sit comfortably on either side of the debate over hate crimes legislation. This is one of those issues, and there are many, where both sides seem to have credible arguments, and both are so convincing that I cannot make up my mind.
To set the stage for discussion, let me encapsulate what are, in my opinion, the best arguments for both sides:
FOR:
I recognize that hate crimes are more serious than other crimes. If someone is murdered for the money in his pocket, well, that’s bad, but it’s just a crime against that person. No one outside of the victim and his immediate circle is harmed. If, though, a member of Group A murders a member of Group B because he hates Bs, that’s a crime against the whole society, by which I mean it erodes the basis of our society. Every time that’s done, relations between blocs of our society become a little more strained. This is true whether it’s black/white, native-born/immigrant, male/female, gay/straight, liberal/conservative, between faiths, or between believers and non-believers. Each incident of this type makes this a less civil society, and that works to the harm of all of us, not just the family and friends of the victim.
The first time I shaved my head (it was not for political reasons), I walked to the Village Café in downtown Richmond. On the way, I passed two young black men. I heard one mutter under his breath, “Fucking skinhead.” His friend replied, “Maybe we should kill him, the way they’re always killing us.”
Conversely, I used to know a guy in Richmond who was very straightforward about his hatred of blacks. He had no logical argument for this; he would simply say, when challenged, that he had been attacked and beaten by a group of black men. By virtue of that, in his mind he came by his racism honestly, just like the two fellas coolly contemplating my murder back in ’93 did.
A lot of people in this country feel this way, and though the argument makes no sense, it’s pretty convincing to the person involved. Every time a hate crime is committed, this problem gets worse. Since the crimes being committed are therefore more severe, they should result in harsher sentences, and there should be more available avenues of prosecution.
AGAINST:
If Person C kills Person D, Person C should be tried, convicted, and punished. That’s straightforward enough. We routinely imprison people in this country for committing actions that run contrary to the interests of society. In fact, in cases of white-collar crime and governmental malfeasance, it is my opinion that we don’t do enough of that.
It’s important to remember that we are punishing people for their actions, though. Hate crime bills try to punish people for what they think. That strikes me as being a very, very dangerous road for us to go down. Even if the things I think are ugly and hateful, the government has no right to punish me for thinking them. They already put too many limitations on what we’re allowed to do and say; we can’t allow them to govern what we think as well.
So, what do you guys think? I’m guessing that I’ve got a lot of readers on both sides of the argument, and to the best of my knowledge none of you is a rabid racist. Do you support this legislation or not, and why? Was it these arguments or others that sold you, and how do you refute the counter-argument? Clue me!
To set the stage for discussion, let me encapsulate what are, in my opinion, the best arguments for both sides:
FOR:
I recognize that hate crimes are more serious than other crimes. If someone is murdered for the money in his pocket, well, that’s bad, but it’s just a crime against that person. No one outside of the victim and his immediate circle is harmed. If, though, a member of Group A murders a member of Group B because he hates Bs, that’s a crime against the whole society, by which I mean it erodes the basis of our society. Every time that’s done, relations between blocs of our society become a little more strained. This is true whether it’s black/white, native-born/immigrant, male/female, gay/straight, liberal/conservative, between faiths, or between believers and non-believers. Each incident of this type makes this a less civil society, and that works to the harm of all of us, not just the family and friends of the victim.
The first time I shaved my head (it was not for political reasons), I walked to the Village Café in downtown Richmond. On the way, I passed two young black men. I heard one mutter under his breath, “Fucking skinhead.” His friend replied, “Maybe we should kill him, the way they’re always killing us.”
Conversely, I used to know a guy in Richmond who was very straightforward about his hatred of blacks. He had no logical argument for this; he would simply say, when challenged, that he had been attacked and beaten by a group of black men. By virtue of that, in his mind he came by his racism honestly, just like the two fellas coolly contemplating my murder back in ’93 did.
A lot of people in this country feel this way, and though the argument makes no sense, it’s pretty convincing to the person involved. Every time a hate crime is committed, this problem gets worse. Since the crimes being committed are therefore more severe, they should result in harsher sentences, and there should be more available avenues of prosecution.
AGAINST:
If Person C kills Person D, Person C should be tried, convicted, and punished. That’s straightforward enough. We routinely imprison people in this country for committing actions that run contrary to the interests of society. In fact, in cases of white-collar crime and governmental malfeasance, it is my opinion that we don’t do enough of that.
It’s important to remember that we are punishing people for their actions, though. Hate crime bills try to punish people for what they think. That strikes me as being a very, very dangerous road for us to go down. Even if the things I think are ugly and hateful, the government has no right to punish me for thinking them. They already put too many limitations on what we’re allowed to do and say; we can’t allow them to govern what we think as well.
So, what do you guys think? I’m guessing that I’ve got a lot of readers on both sides of the argument, and to the best of my knowledge none of you is a rabid racist. Do you support this legislation or not, and why? Was it these arguments or others that sold you, and how do you refute the counter-argument? Clue me!
- Where my body's at:704
- ...but my soul is: contemplative
- What I'm diggin' now:Peter Gabriel, "Solsbury Hill"
I am on Planet Motherfucker, processing a new shipment of documents. One of them is a beautifully-bound, carefully researched, meticulously documented 900-page history of dentistry in the U.S. Army through World War II. It is a truly lovely book, full of period photos. It is clearly the result of countless hours of hard work. I’ve just stamped it with the date received. Later today I will enter it into the computer, assign it a barcode, and put it on the shelf, where it will sit forever and never be touched again, because nobody on this campus cares about dentistry at all, much less military dentistry from sixty-five years ago.
The thought of this carefully crafted book being exiled to permanent loneliness breaks my heart. Somebody come check it out?
The thought of this carefully crafted book being exiled to permanent loneliness breaks my heart. Somebody come check it out?
- Where my body's at:Planet Motherfucker
- ...but my soul is:
depressed - What I'm diggin' now:Bruce Springsteen, "No Surrender"
So Eric Cantor is a Virginian. He is one of the Congressional representatives from the Commonwealth. More than that, he represents the city of Richmond itself (well, part of it, anyway). As a result of this, I usually cut him a little more slack than I do most politicians. And his party certainly needs rebuilt, and it seems to me that the GOP could do a lot worse as far as young leadership goes. I definitely approve of this new “listening tour” he’s been going around on, though I don’t approve of some of the folks he’s bringing along.
Rush Limbaugh does NOT approve of this listening tour. He came on the radio and said that the GOP doesn’t need a listening tour, it needs a teaching tour. This is, of course, because the American people don’t actually know what’s good for them; they need Rush to tell them what to think.
That’s fine. I expect no better from Rush, and a week without him saying something stupid is like a week without a paycheck. What I was not prepared for, though, was that Cantor, upon hearing about Rush’s ludicrous but totally in-character statement, rushed to change his mind and point out that his traveling road show is not, in fact, a listening tour. I am outraged.
Mr. Cantor, you are a Virginian, representing our proud Commonwealth before the nation. Virginians do not take orders from, nor are we cowed by, people from inferior states. The last outsider to successfully knock us down was Ulysses S. Grant, and he had to bring three million friends to back him up. How dare you back down in the face of a fat-assed knuckleheaded blowhard from Missouri? Missouri, of all places! Where are your balls? Stonewall Jackson would have gutted the freak and got the hell on with business. I suggest you take a lesson from him.
Rush Limbaugh does NOT approve of this listening tour. He came on the radio and said that the GOP doesn’t need a listening tour, it needs a teaching tour. This is, of course, because the American people don’t actually know what’s good for them; they need Rush to tell them what to think.
That’s fine. I expect no better from Rush, and a week without him saying something stupid is like a week without a paycheck. What I was not prepared for, though, was that Cantor, upon hearing about Rush’s ludicrous but totally in-character statement, rushed to change his mind and point out that his traveling road show is not, in fact, a listening tour. I am outraged.
Mr. Cantor, you are a Virginian, representing our proud Commonwealth before the nation. Virginians do not take orders from, nor are we cowed by, people from inferior states. The last outsider to successfully knock us down was Ulysses S. Grant, and he had to bring three million friends to back him up. How dare you back down in the face of a fat-assed knuckleheaded blowhard from Missouri? Missouri, of all places! Where are your balls? Stonewall Jackson would have gutted the freak and got the hell on with business. I suggest you take a lesson from him.
- Where my body's at:704
- ...but my soul is: pissed off
- What I'm diggin' now:Sisters of Mercy, "Vision Thing"
Scientists at the iXS Research Corporation in Japan have unveiled a new prototype driving aid that comes equipped with GPS equipment to point out landmarks as you travel, motion sensors that advise caution when they detect potentially reckless driving, and a breathalyzer that shuts off the ignition if it detects alcohol in the car. And all of this potentially life-saving technology comes housed in the form a friendly teddy bear, wrapped in ribbons and bolted to the dead-center of your dashboard because it’s Japanese, and let’s be honest here, the entire nation went fuck-all crazy sometime in the mid 1980s and they’re just not ever coming back. The bear even changes mood depending on the interaction–it informs you about points of interest in a soothing tone of voice, switches to a stern warning when it chastises you for dangerous driving, and expresses cautious concern when it asks “you haven’t been drinking, have you?”
The bear is supposed to provide an appealing and non-judgmental way to interact with a drunk driver when it detects impairment, but there are any number of ways to be ‘impaired’ aside from drinking, and they all may require different tacks to keep you from getting behind the wheel. In future versions, expect the bear to detect marijuana smoke and adopt a bewildered tone as it asks you a series of questions designed to effectively incapacitate the common stoner, like “have you ever really looked at your own hands? Do they even feel attached to you?” When it finds Ecstasy in your system, expect the bear to softly pet your forearms for six hours while tunelessly humming to itself, and if hallucinogens are found, be prepared for the perky stuffed animal to inform you–in no uncertain terms–that it is simultaneously both your mother and the devil, and that it has been waiting for you a very, very long time now–oh, such a long time indeed!
Swiped from Cracked, one entry in their “Five Astounding Advances in the Science of Getting Drunk” story, which you can read here if you like.
The bear is supposed to provide an appealing and non-judgmental way to interact with a drunk driver when it detects impairment, but there are any number of ways to be ‘impaired’ aside from drinking, and they all may require different tacks to keep you from getting behind the wheel. In future versions, expect the bear to detect marijuana smoke and adopt a bewildered tone as it asks you a series of questions designed to effectively incapacitate the common stoner, like “have you ever really looked at your own hands? Do they even feel attached to you?” When it finds Ecstasy in your system, expect the bear to softly pet your forearms for six hours while tunelessly humming to itself, and if hallucinogens are found, be prepared for the perky stuffed animal to inform you–in no uncertain terms–that it is simultaneously both your mother and the devil, and that it has been waiting for you a very, very long time now–oh, such a long time indeed!
Swiped from Cracked, one entry in their “Five Astounding Advances in the Science of Getting Drunk” story, which you can read here if you like.
- Where my body's at:Planet M
- ...but my soul is: Intrigued/slightly creeped out
- What I'm diggin' now:The Church, "Fading Away"
Because I’ve been told that there are seven different ways to interpret this sentence, depending on which word is stressed, and I thought it would make an interesting late-night intellectual exercise:
I never said she stole my money—I never said that, but other folks did, and I’m not saying they’re wrong.
I never said she stole my money—I have not accused her, but I might at any time in the future, depending on how contrite she is and how much I’ve had to drink. However, if she accuses me of not trusting her, I have an out.
I never said she stole my money—I am too much of a gentleman to accuse her of this. I think she did, but I would never say it out loud in the presence of the press (this is off the record, right?).
I never said she stole my money—My money was totally stolen, but that doesn’t mean she stole it. Coulda been that ugly dude and his pet monkey.
I never said she stole my money—She might have been just borrowing it. This is a deeply personal problem within our relationship that we’re gonna have to discuss, preferably in the absence of police.
I never said she stole my money—Maybe she stole some money, but it was somebody else’s.
I never said she stole my money—She stole my heart, my soul, my drugs, and my love of living, but not my money.
Any alternate explanations out there? Let’s hear ‘em!
I never said she stole my money—I never said that, but other folks did, and I’m not saying they’re wrong.
I never said she stole my money—I have not accused her, but I might at any time in the future, depending on how contrite she is and how much I’ve had to drink. However, if she accuses me of not trusting her, I have an out.
I never said she stole my money—I am too much of a gentleman to accuse her of this. I think she did, but I would never say it out loud in the presence of the press (this is off the record, right?).
I never said she stole my money—My money was totally stolen, but that doesn’t mean she stole it. Coulda been that ugly dude and his pet monkey.
I never said she stole my money—She might have been just borrowing it. This is a deeply personal problem within our relationship that we’re gonna have to discuss, preferably in the absence of police.
I never said she stole my money—Maybe she stole some money, but it was somebody else’s.
I never said she stole my money—She stole my heart, my soul, my drugs, and my love of living, but not my money.
Any alternate explanations out there? Let’s hear ‘em!
- Where my body's at:704
- What I'm diggin' now:Idiom of Sad, "Cry to Angels"
Bill O’Reilly: Do we really want to turn America into Sweden?
Me: Yes! Are we voting on this? Then I vote yes. Yes, please. Can I vote more than once? Yes yes yes. Yes infinity plus one. When do we start?
Me: Yes! Are we voting on this? Then I vote yes. Yes, please. Can I vote more than once? Yes yes yes. Yes infinity plus one. When do we start?
- Where my body's at:704
- ...but my soul is: excited
- What I'm diggin' now:Jon Stewart
