KOM's late take on a dead horse

I found myself an eleven foot pole, so I'm going to touch this one.

Repeated yet again, Bill Bennett's statement:

"But I do know that it's true that if you wanted to reduce crime, you could -- if that were your sole purpose, you could abort every black baby in this country, and your crime rate would go down. That would be an impossible, ridiculous, and morally reprehensible thing to do, but your crime rate would go down. So these far-out, these far-reaching, extensive extrapolations are, I think, tricky."

I'm of two minds about this statement.

First, it's true. All other things being equal, if every "black baby" in this country were aborted, the crime rate would eventually go down if only because the number of possible perpetrators would also go down. This seems pretty straight forward.

On the other hand, Bennett is obviously a shit-stirring fuck. He chose a given race in this little exercise because he knew that it would be controversial. Any press is good press, you beady-eyed prick.

But on the other other hand, now I have to listen to Al Sharpton opine for the next week about how the Right is to a man racist, and that Bennett's argument is logically flawed. I'm no conservative apologist, but it does seem to be making a mountain out of a molehill. This is America, and like it or not, the Klu Klux fucking Klan has a right to walk down the middle of the street yelling that Jews are mud people. Honestly, so the fuck what if some radio talk-show host says shit? Do any of you honestly think that he's changing anyone's mind? If you agree with him, you already do. If you don't, this sure as hell isn't going to help shift your world-view.

On the other, other other hand, what if he had said, "If your sole purpose would be to reduce serial killers, you could abort every white child born in the US"? Would anyone argue this case? Would it even have been worth the blogosphere repeating once, if not ad nauseum? Logically, it's just as true as the statement that Bennett did make.

That point may not be quite as valid, because it specifies a crime. But the spirit of the argument is the same.

On the other, other, other other hand, I am left wondering if, in his statement, the "morally reprehensible" thing would be aborting "black bab[ies]", or abortion period. Something tells me that it's just abortion. And that is why we should be bending this guy over a hot fire and sodomizing him with a cross.

Kudos to you, Mr. Bennett. Before today I had no idea who you were. Now I have to live knowing that there is another crazy agitator out there living only to cause conflict.

Baby you can drive my car... 'cause I can't

I stalled-out in traffic on a fairly steep hill yesterday. It happens. I quickly restarted the engine and continued the climb. I doubt the car behind me even noticed the lag. But I did.

Whenever I wasn't safely nestled into 3rd or higher, I would begin to think too hard about letting the clutch out and about any given speed I could maintain without dieseling. Soon enough I stalled again while running a work errand. I stalled again today.

I've also had trouble tying my shoes. Sometimes the devil that lives behind my eyeballs whispers "What are you doing?" When I begin to answer, I realize that I have no idea. Rabbit goes around the tree, down the hole... dynamites the duck? kisses the hunter?

Twice I've forgotten how to spell shew shoo shue shoe.

I have a theory about all of this. You see, I don't think that I know any of it - how to drive, how to spell, how to throw a baseball. It seems that at one time I knew, just not anymore. I must have practiced enough that my body just remembers what to do. As soon as I try to take my body off autopilot all hell breaks loose. My tongue sticks out the side of my mouth, sweat drips down my forehead and I knock over everything within arms reach. When my frustration level has maxed out, I try to grab something to throw against the wall; invariably said objects slips out of my grip and falls harmlessly to the floor.

At this point autopilot usually re-engages, and sometime later I find myself halfway to work, or eating a sandwhich, or doing laundry. I fall into the warm embrace of memorized routine and smile, drool pooling on my chin.

Religion is the opiate of the masses? Opium, perhaps? No, my friend, routine is humanity's binky.

23, 5, 5

But eventually he (we have to call him Tiger... something abut his name being unpronounceable) had us come back with him to his house... he's putting us up until our train arrives.

Who's scruffy looking?

Nasty secrets for voyeurs

I never liked Family Circus. Not so much because I thought it was stupid (though I do), but because I was never down with Mom's ever-(every decade?) changing hairdo. So please understand how I could have missed the following:




I'm just waiting for the dot-trail of the rest of the family's escape.

Thank you, Planet Dan. And I. Marie, for the link to the link.

What an interesting smell

I have a crazy cat, and she lives in my office.

She didn't used to be crazy. In fact, she was once the most lovable ball of fluff in the world. Well, actually cute and crazy are not at all mutually exclusive as evidenced by Tom Cruise. But I digress.

I think the change happened when she was still a kitten. All 20,000 of my pubescent nieces and nephews came over to our new apartment to check out the digs and see the new cat. As soon as she smelled the hormones, she ran under the end table. In many ways, she's never come back out.

Imagine a plush rattlesnake. That's Stanzi.

Her full name is Constanza Quake, and that may have been part of the problem. She was named after a particularly violent quake that occurred in Napa in 2000, right after we got her. Why Constanza? Because I'm a super dork. Might answer that one day. Next question...

I have a picture to prove that she was at least reasonable for a short time:



She must have been drunk on eggnog.

The real troubles began when another one of our cats, Sonja, joined the fray. She was a little bat-eared kitten, with a face only a mother could love. That mother is my wife, so we had to keep her.

In the picture above, you get the impression that they got along. But this otherwise sweet, cuddly cat, has it in for Stanzi. I can imagine how Stanzi sees her.



Scary.

Well, they hate eachother. Halloween cat, growling, hissing hate.

I finally had to install a pet door so that they could get away from eachother. Or at least fight outside. As referenced in the last link, this lead to a Lazarus-type experience.

I mean, I buried the damn girl, and she still came back. It was like Pet Cemetery. And yes, she came back even crazier than before.

So now she appears every 2-3 weeks, and looks angry. She wants in, but she doesn't want to be lead in. She claws your face off, then purrs and rubs your leg. Maybe she's bi-polar.

Why she doesn't just come in through the pet door I'll never understand. Oh yeah. It's because Sonja patrols the house perimeter like a fucking Nazi guard. "Ver are your papers, Fraulein?"

So now she lives in my office. Away from the other crazy cats. We've moved in a litter box and a food dish. She hangs out, reads the periodicals, bats the random piece of paper around. I've tried to let her out again. Now she's afraid to leave, because the rest of the house smells like other cats.

I have a crazy cat, and she lives in my office. Sometimes I think that the crazy is catching.

And what is that smell?

I blame Quimby

Dammit. Why didn't anyone tell me that Don Adams had died?

There go my hopes for an Inspector Gadget update.

I'm going to hit the snooze alarm on this one. Someone wake me up when Chris Latta passes on.

Oh, and may heaven be a place where 99 wears nothing but high heels.

100 things

Come, taste the vinegared wine that is KOM:

1. I have three cats.

2. I have one wife.

3. I have one son.

4. It would appear that I have a daughter on the way.

5. I taught myself BASIC.

6. Everything that I know about HTML (nothing), I taught myself.

7. My first computer was a TRS-80.

8. I love cheese.

9. Often my own farts make me want to gag.

10. Hotdogs make me lose control.

11. I play bass and guitar.

12. I taught a girlfriend how to play electric bass. She became the bass player for one of the most succesful, short-lived, local bands in the area.

13. I'm still a little bit bitter about this beacuse I'm a really good bass player. In fact, I came up with the bass lines for several of the band's most popular songs.

14. Green is my favorite color.

15. Blue was my favorite color while growing up.

16. I say "chupacabra" every cance I get.

17. My favorite card game is Hearts.

18. My favorite board game is Monopoly.

19. Except for chess.

20. I played football in highschool.

21. I played tennis in highschool.

22. I still run into my favorite highschool teacher, from time to time.

23. I learned German from my favorite teacher.

24. I went to Germany as an exchange student in 1992.

25. I went to Germany as a refugee in 1997.

26. I went back to Germany to escape from my ex-girlfriend.

27. It didn't help - but I thought it did. Same difference, I guess.

28. As a strange coincidence, I sought my ex-girlfriend out exactly one year, to the day, after she left me. When I approached her at her job, she turned ghost white. I was a completely different man, and she was a completely different woman.

29. The break-up with said girl nearly killed me.

30. I've never blogged about said girl, except in passing. Nearly 10 years later, the wounds are too fresh. One day, perhaps.

31. I don't like to talk on the telephone.

32. Although several jobs that I've held have chained me to the damn machine.

33. I abhor work above almost everything else.

34. Moving is the exception.

35. I wish that I could plow a field or wrestle a pig.

36. White collar work eats your soul.

37. Still, I hate my job.

38. I have many literary tastes, but I usually only read sci-fi written between the early 40's and the mid 60's.

39. But I just finished a recent book called Ilium. And I would recommend it.

40. I can count on one hand the women that I've loved.

41. But I can't count on the same hand the women that I've told that I've loved.

42. Yet, I don't like to think that I've lied.

43. I just never knew what love was. Until it was gone.

44. And so I've made peace with myself. If not with those other women.

45. But dare you judge me? With your unsuccessful relationships, as well?

46. Finally, I found the woman that I could be with.

47. I'd met my wife several times before we knew eachother.

48. The first time that I remember, my garage band and I were "hired" to play a birthday party that she had attended. As a clown.

49. The next time that I remember, it was a halloween party. I had come as as the Roto-rooter man (my sister had worked dispatch, and I had a generic blue shirt). She had come as the "world's best mom."

50. I came with a plunger in tow. When I saw her, several dozen "children" attached like so many monkeys to her outfit, I screamed "Abort! Abort!" and plunged her stomach.

51. It was many months later when I found out that she had recenty suffered a misscarriage.

52. Still ignorant of the terribly cruel truth, I saw her again at a Christmas party at the same location.

53. My friend threatened to kiss her.

54. I didn't really know that I was attracted to her until that moment.

55. We made love that same night.

56. Now we have too many "anniversaries". The first time we humped, our first date, the first time we said "love", when we got married... it's hard to keep track!

57. So I don't. But we got married September 28th. This I remember.

58. On our first date, we saw Ghost Busters, which was playing at the dollar theater. God, I love that movie.

59. I only know that fact because she told me.

60. My son was conceived shortly after we were married.

61. The Best Man and a Bride's Maid conceived the same night as our wedding.

62. Their son is a few months older than ours'.

63. I give to PBS.

64. To make them shut the fuck up, and continue to show the "Connections" show that I was watching.

65. One time, I sent an email to the wrong PBS station, extolling their programming. I didn't stop receiving requests for donations until I moved.

66. The SF Chron is a decent paper.

67. Their elite force of delivery helper monekys, however, are lacking.

68. I've been to Hawaii once. I forgot to put sunscreen on my feet during a catamaran trip.

69. I hate Hawaii.

70. I know that birds hate me. I know that they stalk me.

71. I hate birds.

72. I am circumcised.

73. I didn't have any say in this transaction.

74. My son is not. How the hell am I supposed to tell him how to clean his wee-wee?

75. I often stay up too late, doing things that I don't always remember.

76. I was born in this year.

77. Smoking is a habit as well as an obsession. I traded pot for nicotine. Who knows, next year I may be smoking rosemary.

78. I've smoked rosemary. I was really high, and we watched Nightmare On Elm Street. And smoked rosemary.

79. I try to hide my smoking from my son.

80. I found out when I was 13 that my own father smoked until I was 10.

81. He only smoked at work.

82. Despite his faults, my father is my hero.

83. My mother is slowly slipping into dementia. Perhaps Alzheimers. We don't know yet.

84. I've never discussed this with anyone besides my family.

85. I've inherited my ear from my mother. She is a professional musician. As was her father. I may go crazy before my time, but it will have been worth it to hear music.

86. My mother and I have relative pitch.

87. If you don't know the term, it means that we can extrapolate from any given tone. Perfect pitch implies that the listener can hear what a note should be, regardless of previous tones.

88. My interests ran in this vein until the age of 18. Since then my musical skills have atrophied. I can still play some guitar, much bass, but to what purpose?

89. I am naturally atracted to reheads. Experience has dulled the impulse. Considerably.

90. I love garlic, broccoli and spinach. In that order.

91. I'm the last to know about, or even celebrate, important family occasions. Yet family is the single most important thing in my life.

92. I think Jesus was a good guy.

93. But I don't believe that he was the son of God.

94. In fact, usually I am agnostic.

95. Unless I am sad or distraught.

96. I fully believe that things are much stranger than are "dreamt of in your philosophy."

97. I saw a black bear once. It was much smaller than my wife will tell you.

98. Chupacabra. And extra points to anyone who's read this far.

99. I am so excited that I will soon blog about my daughter(?). Regardless of the sex, I'm so happy (though wary) to do it all again!

100. Chupacabra.

Conspiracy

The news of Sheehan's arrest bumped an article about China's crackdown on freedom of speech off the top of the MSNBC splash page.

I thought that this was an amusing coincidence, until I decided to blog about it. Then Blogger would not load for over an hour, and I kept getting telephone calls from someone who wouldn't speak.

Now I realize that it was a stalling technique for Blogger, and that G Men were on the phone, practicing some kind of intimidation.

I think that they're watching me through my monitor, and I found... something... in my chow mein.

Who's that at the door? Da, Comrades, I do not expect to return.

Mr. Picasso Head

Superstar!

I've been trying to ignore it, hoping that it will go away. But every time I see myself, it gets worse. I finally have the perfect hairstyle to go with my fashion sense.



The city turned off our water this morning for maintenance. I had counted on not being able to take a shower, but I hadn't reckoned on the epic struggle that I would wage with my hair. Actually, "epic" and "struggle" would imply that I at least had a chance. Truth be told, my hair reached down and bitch slapped me as soon as I reached for the comb. After causing me to bang my head into the wall several times, it slept with my wife and killed my paw.

I think I'm going to get a haircut this weekend. I'll ask for extra dull scissors -- I want it to hurt.

Down with them, up with us

Sometimes it's nice to use a visual in lieu of a political rant.





Rant over.

Cigarettes and Tron bikes

Wow. 5 posts in a row that have to do with music. Perhaps it's time for a break - a break from the music inspired posts. But this post will also reference music. There's no winning the battle.

To try to satisfy Yawn, I can only say "La resina y el brote son largos idos." That is, I've done my share, but I assure you that at least the illicit usage is over. Really.

There is no secret. I've already admitted to taking far too many psychotropic drugs in my youth. I have to admit that the shrooms were amazing - I finally realized that the Incas were in fact responsible for the eventual assassination of JFK. You won't find that on PBS, but I have it on authority that it is correct. More correct that you can comprehend.

In fact, I've already briefly discussed my short-lived love affair with acid.

So let's again take the Way-back machine. Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun. Better yet, set the controls for 1993.

Contrary to the insane concerns of politicians and cops, there actually are such things as "acid parties", though they'd never be described as such by a participant. I hosted one such party with a few of my favorite people back in highschool.

Ahh. The Way-back machine is starting to resolve. We can safely begin to observe:

See my friends on the back porch of my parents house. My parents were gone (naturally), so we were free to do whatever we liked. What most of the acid crowd liked was to sit under the stars and comment, endlessly, on how their cigarettes were sometimes triangular in cross-section. Sometimes they were short, often they were too long. Sometimes they seemed too fat to fit in the mouth, sometimes they were too skinny to be properly held. To cut to the chase, a smoker on acid can consume 10 packs in a matter of hours without blinking.

My girlfriend and I found a stash of bud in the false-bottom of a bong that one of my friends had brought. It was dry and light as tinder - it had obviously been sitting around for months. Well, this was an open invitation to partake. Sorry, buddy. If this had ever meant something to you, it would have been smoked months ago.

If you have no experience with these things, I envy you. But to try to describe the situation, I raised a Bic to the bowl, and prepared to inhale.

And here is where words fail me. The next two hours were a geometric blur. Things passed through me, thing came from me. Shapes, colors, scents.. all the same. I've been told that I spent a good deal of time chasing fast colors through the carpet, trying to trap the Tron cycles that littered my living room. I've also been told that I crushed a Dr. Pepper can against my forehead, frat beer-style, and proclaimed The End.

Finally we were alone, she and I. It was the weirdest sex that I've ever had, and it was all that I could do to continue. We were on a water-bed, and I actually melted into her. I could no longer define myself, and I would have done anything to pull away. But it would have been like divorcing yourself. My face and jaw emerged from the back of her head as her breasts protruded from my back. There was an orgasm in the apocalypse, but I'm not sure if it was mine.

Later, Lisa Loeb was on MTV. Her hair was whipped by the wind as she performed for the masses. I was convinced that she was under water and drowning. I could not accept that she yet continued to sing. I yelled at the TV and pulled the cord out of the wall, heaving and sweaty. To this day, I will not speak of it further. Lisa Loeb is the scarriest thing since Mr. Ed. I have nothing to say to you, Mr. French pastry, and I trust that you have nothing to say to me.

One day I woke up. But it was not that day, nor was it for months after. I woke up, alright, but I ingested another few hits. And it started again. The wonder, the terror, the release, the prison.

Acid is a young man's game. I still miss it, but you couldn't pay me enough to do it again.

Open letter to Wang Chung

Dear Mr. Chung,

Per your advise, I pulled my baby by her hair. This did not go as expected. Instead of comforting her with a calm pat and mantra of "there, there", as I understood you to mean, she simply hit me.

Things were no better when I played upon her darkest fears. Since you've given me no direction or reason for doing this, I just freaked her out. When she asked why I would do this, I could only reply "Uhh, dance hall days, love." Then I grabbed her heel. But the only thing I felt was hungry, so I left to make a sandwhich, leaving her very scared and confused.

One night I went looking for the amethyst, just to see if you were fucking messing with me. She was asleep, and kept turning her head when I stuck my finger in her mouth. I dug around until my finger pruned, but I did not find the stone. Any stone. Don't even ask me about the saphires.

Mr. Chung, I'm beginning to believe that you really don't know what you're talking about. Cool on craze? What does that even mean? Were you on coke when you told me this? Were you on the craze, man? Nose craze?

I just wish to express my waning faith in your program. I would sincerely like further explanation before I try to have fun tonight. Something tells me that it could go spectacularly wrong.

Your devoted but wary acolyte,

KOM

P.S. Do you know how to get ahold of Tina Turner? I understand that the river people are happy to give. Maybe you know which river?

All you sucker DJ's who think you're fly...

I was thinking about Nirvana today. They were the first band that I remember MTV describing as "the buzz". This was before "buzz-worthy".

In fact, back in the dark ages of 1991, buzz was the word.

As I understand it, the previous word was Word. Word up.

Before that, even, Bird was the word.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

So what we have learned is that in the beginning was the Bird. And the Word Up was with God, and the Buzz was God.

Of course, the Bird also stated "I am the I am." That is, "The Bird is the Buzz." Some sects translate this as "The Bird is the Word," but they are obviously heretics. Some fringe elements think that "The Word is the Buzz, word up," but they are routinely ridiculed and often beaten at airports.

Finally, there are those who believe that "Ich bin ein Berliner." This clearly translates not as "I am a person of Berlin", but "I am a jelly doughnut." If you don't believe me, look it up.

The word was never doughnut. This much is clear.

I think what I'm trying to say is that you should be kind to your web-footed friends, because a duck could be somebody's mother.

Word. Word and Amen.

Led Bush

If it keeps on rainin', the levee's going to break
"If it were to rain a lot,
there is concern from the Army Corps of Engineers
that the levees might break"

When the levee breaks, I'll have no place to stay.

Mean old levee taught me to weep and moan
Mean old levee taught me to weep and moan...

I don't know why I call him Gerald

I've got a bike
You can ride it if you like
It's got a basket
A bell that rings
And things to make it look good
I'd give it to you if I could
But I borrowed it

You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world
I'll give you anything
Everything if you want things

I've got a cloak
It's a bit of a joke
There's a tear up the front
It's red and black
I've had it for months
If you think it could look good
Then I guess it should

You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world
I'll give you anything
Everything if you want things

I know a mouse
And he hasn't got a house
I don't know why
I call him Gerald
He's getting rather old
But he's a good mouse

You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world
I'll give you anything
Everything if you want things

I've got a clan of gingerbread men
Here a man
There a man
Lots of gingerbread men
Take a couple if you wish
They're on the dish

You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world
I'll give you anything
Everything if you want things

I know a room full of musical tunes
Some rhyme
Some ching
Most of them are clockwork
Let's go into the other room and make them work


We had a mouse at the crashpad. He liked to arrange loose items into geometric shapes. Of course we had to call him Gerald, and at least we knew why.

We didn't have any girls that fit in with our world. We mostly had violent clashes and regret. Still, we could give them anything, everything if they wanted things.

One day we heard a sharp crack, and Gerald's arranging days were over. We all moved out shortly thereafter.

Seeking candy

I had me a box.

I called it the Hobo Hump'n Slobo Box.

One day the Man took it away.

I think he thought I was crazy. I think he thought right.

That's not okay with me

Extreme close-up of 20-something woman's face.

"I used to think aspirin was king pharm of drug mountain. But then I found out that it will make your insides bleed. Even if you don't feel it! That's not okay with me."

Woman cocks head, looks down, then look back up at camera.

Extreme close-up of 50-something woman's face.

"My husband takes a lot of drugs, and I've always encouraged him. But it recently occured to me that his biggest issue may be perscription ibuprofan. My doctor said that he can take another drug that is available over the counter, and has less side effects! Side effects are not okay with me."

Woman cocks head, looks down, then looks back up at camera.

I thought the first woman was a spaz. But this weird head thing is actually being directed in these commercials?? Move over Budweiser, Tylenol is the newest kid on the "banned by KOM" list.

The Lord, err, Robertson has spoken

Katrina is God's wrath for Ellen Degeneres hosting Emmy's.

What a sick fuck that guy is. What a sick, sick fuck.

--- Updated 12:58p

Allright, so this is satire. But it's frightening how easy it is to believe Robertson would have said these things.

And I still think he's a sick fuck.

A brief dream IX

I was sitting with the Magi in a large coliseum. They were able to summon fried food and fruit juice with their minds. "Myrrh" thought that he was pretty damn cool for being able to make orange juice.

Someone said that next he'd be making banana juice. Someone else said that he wouldn't be happy until he'd made brick juice. This was apparently very, very funny.

We were all awaiting the final event - humans versus stuffed animals in a no-quarter death match. We had just finished watching the Queen of Sass easily defeat all comers in ping-pong. The Magi thought that her four arms gave her an unfair advantage.

Woa, Nelly!

For the record, the previous post was meant to live as a draft until I was finished with it. I must have hit publish instead. Call it an exercise in the first 7 things that come to mind when I dwell on certain topics, not how I would have answered had I thought about it.

Actually, that might be worse.

I'm going to let it stand, since it's already out there. But jeesh. What would I even do with someone's liver? Fava beans and Chianti, I guess... best not to go down that road.

Plus I'm pretty sure I say things like 'I' and 'the' more often than I say fuck, at least in real life. Which reminds me: We were at a party one night, and a friend of mine got really drunk. He was lying on the couch, trying to convince a girl to "Sit on my foot." I don't know why that reminds me. See, it just goes to show that the first answer is not always the best. Or even related to the question.

I have not been tagged. But in celebration of Mel's return, I will play the game, anyhow..

Seven Things I Plan To Do Before I Die:

I'm going to the moon, baby!
Return to Germany, again. It will be akward.
See my great-great grandchildren.
Mastermind my human-cheese expirament.
Be the headliner at the "Thulsa Doom" "revival"
Cut the livers out of my ex-girlfriends.
Fiddle the devil into submission.

Seven Things I Can Do:

Ignore messes.
Get drugs from anyone, anywhere.
Laugh at myself.
Draw you into my power with a wink.
Regurgitate chaw in rainbow colors.
Strongly hate you with an innefectual eye-brow drawn stare.
Recite Pink Floyd lyrics.

Seven Things I Can Not Do:

Solve serious math equations.
Google my friends.
Forget the things that I can't
Believe that friends bathe naked.
Fix a car.
Believe in a God that hates.

Seven Things That Attract Me To The Opposite Sex:

Humor.
Intelligence.
Child-bearing hips.
Attracion to myself.
That diamond between the buttocks and the upper-thigh.
The human smell.
Lips, lips, lips.

Seven Things I Say Most Often:

Fuck
Shit
Damn
crap'n'poop.
Fucking bricks!
Bite my ass.
"Happy to stick my finger up your ass,"

A win, a loss, and terror

I played two sports in highschool:

I played football. I really enjoyed the game, though I often played second string. So much that is glossed over watching a professional or moreso a college game became crystal clear to me. Basically, what I learned in HS taught me to appreciate the game that I've always loved even more.

So how about the Forty-fucking-Niners? True, I bit my nails up to my elbow during the last 3 minutes. But, goddamn! Greatest show on turf, indeed. Well, granted, it wasn't on turf. But who cares? We're 50% of our winning record from last year! And tell me that the SF defense isn't the best you've seen in literally 10 years.

York aside, perhaps we are finally, finally rebuilding? Naysayers, let me have my day in the sun. I know that we will probably have another losing season, and it is so painful to watch. But today, tonight, we were gods. Er, they were gods. But I get some of my mojo from them. We have a deal. Ya know. Whatever.

I played tennis. I know, I know. This is not the first thing that you would admit to a new girlfriend. Sadly, my only varsity patch was in tennis. I never even bothered buying a jacket. But gosh darnit, I love that game.

I only watch a few select matches from the major tournements every year, but I do watch them. And so I found myself switching back and forth between my beloved Niners and the US Open Men's final. How refreshing to see Federer not playing Roddick!

I didn't like Aggasi for a long time. I don't know exactly why. Perhpas it was the balding mullet. Perhaps it was the Nikon commercials. But now, I love the guy. Still holding on at 35 is amazing. This is a sport where the phenoms (like Agassi) come out in their teens, then often fade away.

But Agassi has continued to impress, if not always win, for years. He married the person that I personally think is Dave Mustaine (have you ever seen Mustaine and Graf in the same place?), but somehow managed to produce children. Truly, mama, he's a magic man.

And so it was disheartening to see him lose again. But that 2nd set was awesome, wasn't it? And has anyone ever lost with such grace?

I was going to write today about my experience with Septemer the Eleventh, 2001. I've had it half written for weeks. But it wouldn't come. I guess it's not ready. Who's ever ready to talk about something so sad?

So let's be happy. Let's focus on the trivial things that give us joy! I love my Niners, though I have no illusions of them being a play-off team. Let's savor every win. Also, let's give it to Agassi. He seems to have a good family life, he's still ticking after every great name in the last 15 years has come and gone. And he still has class.

Sports are not the be-all, end-all that some would have us believe. But they are an excellent distraction. And they can remind us that not all is amiss in this world. Even when losing, we can be gracefull. Even when we have nothing left, we can give more.

I love America, and I love sports. Right now, at least, there is no room in my heart for hate. Perhaps we should take this day to remember how great we are, not how vulnerable we were. Or am I extrapolating too much?

Fuck it. I'm happy. Even today, even on the 11th of September.

Perhpaps next year I can talk about the hole in my soul.

Groan

Is anyone else going to say it?

Ok, then, I will.

{hack, cough, clear throat}

"Get thee to an offshore nunnery, Ophelia."

A fair warning 2, KOM returns to Safeway.

"Hello, how can I help you please wait I'll be with you in a minute ok how can I help you?"

"I'd like turkey and muenster, no pickles."

"Anything else?"

"Everything but pickles, please."

"Okay, what kind of bread?"

"Sour roll."

"What kind of bread?"

"Sooooouer rooooollll."

"Ciabata?"

"Fine."

"What would you like on it?"

"Turkey and muenster, no pickles."

"We have yellow mustard or honey-mustard."

"Do you have a dijon?"

"We have honey mustard."

"What's that?" pointing to Grey Poupon.

"You want that?"

"Yes."

"Which side? Both sides?"

"One side would be fine, I don't care which."

"What?"

"Bottom."

"And what would you like on the sandwhich?"

"Turkey and muenster, no pickles."

"You said turkey?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to put it on the lettuce. You want lettuce?"

"That would be fine. Please."

"What else would you like?"

"Everything but pickles."

"Tomato?"

"Yes."

"Onions?"

"Yes."

"Would you like a cheese?"

"MUENSTER!"

"I don't know if we have...."

"It's right there." pointing to muenster.

"No, that's pepper jack."

"No, it may not be muenster, but is sure as hell not pepper jack."

"Let me ask someone. It's called mooncher?"

"Muenster."

"Mooshter?"

"Muenster."

"Monster?"

"Close enough."

{Time passes. New helper comes back with old helper to point out cheeses.}

New helper: "That's the muenster," (holding same cheese I had pointed out), "this is the pepper jack. And here's the provolone. And this is the horse-radish cheeda-"

"Hold it, her head's going to explode."

Old helper: "Oh, that's muenster? You want muenster?"

Blink. Blink.

"Ok. And pickles?"

A fair warning

I am a God among men.

I survey my domain and laugh. A hearty, robust laugh.

I see you, skittering between aisles. Running like so many cockroaches, so busy to do whatever it is that you do.

I laugh again.

I notice you, though you may not notice me. I might be an immovable object, a simple feature of the world that you know. A hill, a mountain, a shining obelisk to the minions.

I am tall, and you are not.

I walk through Safeway and notice that no one, no one is taller than I. I am at least one head taller than you all. Even your wizened old one's are tiny. And your new one's... those upon whom you put your tall dreams? They are not only small but skinny.

I laugh and laugh.

Liliputians, beware. I grind your bones to make my bread. I walk among you as a mountain among a valley.

And if you are ever again in front of me in line, during lunchtime, in the express lane, with 40+ items, I will have to crush you. Crush you. For the sake of the Giant myth. And because you're an asshole.

Fucktarded scribblings and bibblings

This morning (truthfully yesterday morning), I heard a radio interview with the reverend of some San Francisco church speaking about the issues in NO.

I have to paraphrase, here, because I am not savvy enough, nor do I have the time, to dig into the actual interview.

But basically this reverend stated that aid was slow coming to NO, and that the people, if not justified, were at least forgiven for being angry, wary and homicidal.

You see, since most of the poor of NO are black, and these are the people that were left behind, it is acceptable for them to shoot at rescue helicoptors. Furthermore, it is White America's fault for both the disaster, and the inability to process aid more quickly.

To which I say bullshit.

Are things completely fucked up? Are there atrocities happening that I wish I'd never heard about? Is this the worst natural disaster to strike America in the last 100 years?

Yes on all counts.

Sadly, this reminds me of the South Park episode where the parents are sent away for one single week, and the children become completely ferral. The entire town is destroyed, they no longer remember the "before time". And only one single week has passed.

Don't get me wrong. If you were between me and formula for my infant, I would kill you. No offense, and I wouldn't relish the experience. But if it were within my power, and I thought that you were in my way, you would cease to be.

But to acknowlege the thugs that roam the NO streets is beyond me. In one single week, the south has become Anywhere, war-torn Africa or the Middle East. Small bands of mercanaries have become mini-warlords. Word has arrived that while the US has been unable to provide aid, the "undesirables" have provided stolen food, water and trasportation. Which is noble, exciting and uplifting until you consider that these are anarchistic oppertunists.

Do you think that control will be happily turned over, once the crisis is past?

I don't wish to point the finger at anyone. In fact, this is largely a precursor to my 9/11 post. In these situations, I am able to believe that Machiavellian methods are worthy of the greater good. But it needs to end just as soon as the greater powers come to play. That is specifically what they have been chosen to do.

Say goodnight, Gracie

Poseidon? Zeus? Propecius Maximus?

We may never know. But I am strangely upset at the destruction of my friend.



I received Herr Bust as a 21st birthday present from one of my best friends. Even he didn't know who this was supposed to represent. Everywhere that I've since lived, as absurd as the bust proved, I've always featured him in some corner for all to see.

This evening I saw his dead eyes staring up at me from the yard. His shoulders were still huddled against the side of the house.

It was a sad accident that stripped LP of my last Avatar. It is also a sad accident that gives birth to my new image.

Goodnight, Gracie!

gnissertsid tsoM

All day long I've felt like I'm backwards.
That's not quite right.
It's like I'm looking at everything in a mirror. I keep expecting to see behind things in front of me.

Mi peeve es su peeve

I don't like Cake

Let me rephrase that: I'm not particularly fond of cake. It's not that I think it tastes bad (although I do actually dislike frosting), but it doesn't get me off.

Other people go absolutely monkey nuts about cake. Cake and Krispy Kreme. Cake and Krispy Kreme and Entenmann's. Ok, this list could go on for a while. What I'm trying to say is that as a general rule, sweets don't do it for me, and it's always weirded me out a little how into sweets some people are. Can you imagine a birthday beef-jerkey with candles? Bring it on! Easter and hot cross herbed foccacia? Mmm. Salami for desert? Why the hell not!

Which is not to say that I eat healthfully by any means. I just don't care about sweets. But it gets me into trouble.

Apparently everyone on earth makes the best cake you've ever eaten. But you wouldn't know, because you haven't been eating cake. Well, if you were me.

"Why don't you try some?"

"No thank you."

"You don't like my cooking?"

{sigh} "No, I just don't like cake."

"You don't like cake??"

"I don't dislike cake, I just don't care for it. Other people seem to enjoy it, so I'd really rather let them have their cake. And eat it, too. So to speak. Heh."

{incredulously} "You don't like cake??"

At this point, I generally change the subject before said cake-baker goes all Ike Turner on my ass.

So it seems that I offend people by not eating cake. Screw it. Now I'm going to be offended that you people keep trying to make me eat this crap! I've officially added birthday cake to my list of pet peeves. And Krispy Kreme. And Entenmann's. I forsake you, baked sugar goods! Go tempt someone else - I find you as exciting as a dead hooker.

But I know that someone, somewhere, is blogging about the kill-joy bastard who won't even try her cake.

A secret

I have a secret.

I'm about to let it out.

I need to know that you won't tell anyone. Or if you do, say "I heard about this guy who...". Then lie about who you heard it from.

Tell 'em Grandma told you.

Better yet, say "I heard about this gal who..." Then tell 'em you overheard it at a gas station in Utah.

Better still, don't tell anyone.

I didn't know about this secret until about a week ago. It came as an epiphany, of sorts. An epiphette. And I felt so much better having realized it. I had never thought about it before, but if I had, I would have wondered "what's wrong with me?"

So maybe it's not that big of a deal. Hardly worth being a secret at all. In fact, I might just yell it from the mountain tops! The hills are alive, with the sound of KOM's former secret!

Ok. You may wish to return your tray to the upright position.

Here we go.

I don't like The Doors.

Wednesday. Or Thursday.

Strangely, it's tomorrow.

I woke up this morning to news of looting in New Orleans.

I trust that my initial reaction was the same as yours: "So, there're no white people looting in the big easy?"

Some research gave me a possibly unfair, but telling all the same, look into the situation.


Speaking of spooky, have you all read the Time article Titan Rain? It would seem that the country that gave rise to the internet is completely incapable of defending itself from its own creation. For some reason, this scares me much more than endless Iranian nuke headlines. Doesn't Yawn have something to say about it?


I must admit that I ignored the coverage of Katrina until it was too late. Every time a hurricane comes around, we hear talking heads spelling disaster. Well, this time, it appears to have been correct.

I was going to post pictures of the refugees waiving flags at the news helicopters. Perhaps mention that most NO burials are above ground, mausoleums. It's obvious where that thought is going.

In my free time, I worry about a nuclear strike upon our soil. Be it a renegade suitcase-bomb attack, or a full fledged WW3 situation, I wondered about the aftermath. I think that we know the answer, now.

Somewhere, the deep-left is sharpening knives, trying to blame W. for the storm. Somewhere, the deep-right is doing the same. I am so weary, so tired, of partisan attacks. Like 9/11, can we just understand that this was a terrible disaster upon American soil? Can't we agree to help as best we can, and not place blame?

My stomach turns when any tragedy is exploited. Blue, red. Conservative, liberal. TV Pundit, cheap Blog poster:

Pray for those still in their houses, still just above water, still waiting for potable water, still in the dead zone.

There is always tomorrow. Tomorrow will come more quickly than you, I, or anyone else could have predicted. And it will come. As sure as the.... it will come.