Friday after work, Red Mouth Ghost invited me to Critical Mass, and let me borrow his Swedish Army Bike for the ride. If you're not already kickin' combustion-engine ass in Critical Mass, it's a nationwide act of... well, not civil disobedience so much as political pranksterism. The idea is that one day out of the month, bikes will no longer be victims on the downtown streets. It's legal to ride in the street on a bike, right? What about 400 bikes?

The folks who showed up at the Daley Plaza were there for reasons as diverse as the crowd itself. Many were bike messengers, who obviously just wanted to let out some aggression against the beasts that hunt them the other 29 days of the month. The core group was the Critical Mass activists, wearing shirts that read ONE LESS CAR and sporting bikes that looked like they lived on them. Two kids with backpacks shaped like half-cans of Red Bull handed out free cans of that sweet, sweet nectar. Some grizzled old guy gave me an anti-nuke fax already filled out to be copied and faxed to Dubya. But the main motivation seemed to be to see who was the nerdiest bike-geek in town. There were recumbent bikes and a coupla velocipedes. One guy even had a bike where he laid right off the ground between the wheels, like this: 0*\___/0 where * represents the pedals. The crowd was pretty crunchy, and thus one guy had a drum and others were hacky-sacking.

They began to circle the plaza, bells ringing. Suddenly, the crowd plunged into rush-hour traffic, surrounding cars and bringing them to a halt! The best part was when traffic stopped and we caught up with the cars, flowing between them in an unstoppable wave, ignoring all traffic laws, 200 of us dominating the streets. The cars would start to honk and we'd start to ring our little bells in response. The cops harassed us a couple of times, tried to instruct us to ride in the right lane and keep the left lane free for cars, but they gave up eventually.

As they swarmed into an intersection, crazy riders would go and park themselves in front of each car. They'd remain there until the pack had passed, and make their way back up to the front. We handed out flyers to pedestrians and stuck invitations on every bike we saw. It was a blast.

I can't wait until the next one. I'm gonna have to get me a bike like one of these guys's.

So I ran this Content Audit that I got some spam on, to see what it turned up. Well, mostly it was crap in my cache that some page or another had stuck there that said XXX PORN BOOBS etc etc. But it's funny to see which words they considered potentially objectionable. The audit turned up files in my hard drive that contained any of these words:

playboy
mdma
fuck
nazi
piss
violence
drugs
witchcraft
gay (gay?)
sex
jugs (jugs?)
terrorist
dope
dyke
bitch
pistol
gamble
penis
nasty
suicide
blood
screw
alcohol
lottery
tobacco
stoned

...and so on. It was pretty funny because all sorts of randomly-generated cookies were turning up because they contained "lsd", "ghb" or something similar. But the cached copy of this page turned up in the audit, too, because it contained "jugs terrorist dope dyke tattoo bitch piss". Plus "vulgar" for the link to Vulgaria. But tattoo? Why is tattoo on this list? I can see "lottery", and "gamble"... to find out if your family has been gambling online. Same with nazi, sex, drugs, etc. Why tattoo? As a concerned parent who thinks their child is going to get a tattoo, and wants to put a stop to it, would you turn first to a covert search of their web cache? Regardless of your personal beliefs about tattoos, very few people believe that it's a right we should take away from other people! So why is it lumped in with all those controversial keywords? How odd.

Cabuto was over last night talking about what he called "midget cats" and what turned out to be officially called "Munchkin Cats". I was not aware of this new breed. Basically they're the weiner dog equivalent of cats, taking advantage of a genetic mutation/deformity that makes them teeny tiny and squeezable.

The big hoopla about these cats is the fact that we're breeding into them a deformity. Of course, all purebreds are really inbred and all purebred characteristics are genetic mutations. But weiner dogs have been around since before we were born, and midget cats have only started to be bred on purpose (the mutation popping up now and then throughout the years), so we must face the fact that these things are funny looking because of us. Not because of nature, like the platypus, but because we made a living being that's deformed on purpose.

I myself, of course, don't really think life's all that sacred, and I think a big jump in the development of our species will come when we realize how plastic life is. That is to say, I don't believe a single soul should ever have to suffer and die, but I do believe that we as people OWN our bodies, and they are NOT temples, they are ours to do with as we wish. Thus my tattoos and piercings, hair dye, and less extreme body modification such as avoiding sunlight and working on musculature.

As a moral society, our taboos and mores don't advance as fast as our technology does. So when something like cloning comes along, it really freaks people out, and for good reason. As it stands, I guess, the judeo-christian model is that human life is precious, the image of God, and the reason for the universe's existence. Animal life is disposable, there for our use, and no matter how nice a kitty or monkey is, it's not getting into heaven.

As a society, we like to ignore troublesome issues of "playing god". We ignore the fact that in vitro fertilization results in viable, but unused, embryos. Until stem-cell research becomes a huge issue, and now we're all concerned that we not experiment with those blastocytes and we go back to pitching them. I guess that's the conservative stance. Does anybody know? Nobody's against in vitro, but we're against doing anything with the leftovers EXCEPT flushing them. We try to avoid thinking about this. Same with abortion. Fertilized eggs, more often than not, don't take in the uterine lining. Yet "life begins at conception". A sticky wicket indeed.

I read a great article by Stephen Jay Gould once about whether or not conjoined twins are two people or one. Most people seem to think that you just count the heads. But what if they share part of a brain? Stiiicky wicket. Now The Advocate is talking about scientists who are working on allowing same-sex parents to have children who represent a mix of their individual DNA! It's not too crazy if you think about it (fertilize one's egg with the nucleus of another for example) and definitely not as risky as cloning. Sheeit, they invent that shit, and David Crosby's out of a job!

Another one is euthanasia. "Playing God" the opponents scream. They like to ignore the fact that without our meddling, the terminally ill patient would have been dead long ago. This guy has a good point when talking about the parents of conjoined twins who decided to have them even though early tests showed that they'd be monstrously deformed, saying they were placing it in the hands of God: "God plays cruel tricks like this on the world all the time, and the end is never pleasant."

So now we get to play cruel tricks too. Midget cats. Sinus-troubled bulldogs. Weiner dogs with back troubles. And what about stupidity? Is it cruel to purebreed a dog, knowing how dumb it will be? At least it will never notice! At least midget cats suffer no disabilities, unlike the diamond eye to the right here. Here's a cat we breed for a disease that causes blindness and horrible pain! But hey, it's good luck!

And these are just the animals we care about! The ones we eat have it worse. Heck, they were brought into this world expressly to become a chicken-fried steak or stick-style fish chunklet. I have no problem with this. I believe that we should be neither the slaves of nature nor its rapists, but rather, custodians. At times in our history there have been cultures who consumed meat with a great deal of respect for the spirit of the animal or its totem, and I think we can return to that attitude. So with a lot of these issues I think our morals are out of whack but not totally wrong, and we need to seriously reevaluate our role on this planet. Issues of what is life, and creating life, are really just the beginning.

Man oh man, what a night.

Singular went out for drinks after work yesterday with a friend who works next door to her. She says she'll be home at eight, I say, don't worry about it, stay out as long as you'd like. But when I hadn't heard from her by midnight I called the bar and they said she'd cashed out her tab an hour previous. Okay, she's on her way home. By one AM, still no sign, and visions of murderin' rapists and the cold hearted city are dancing through my head. The what if the Lopper got her?!?! Especially since she hadn't called and she wasn't answering her cell phone.

Well, I called the house of her drinkin' buddy and she was there. And wasted as hell! She had been drinking whiskey straight from 5:30 till 1 AM, on an empty stomach. She was too happy drunk to get pissed at, and I was just relieved that she was alive. It was actually pretty funny. I'm not the type of guy to keep reigns on her but I do worry like an ol' mother hen.

So then comes a Singular trademark. "Do you want me to come pick you up?" "No, I'll take the train." "You sure? I don't mind. Why don't I pick you up?" "Nah, I'm fine, really." Then I hang up and start getting ready for bed. The phone rings. "Can you come pick me up?" Guadalupe says I should just ignore her when she says she doesn't need a ride, and go get her anyway. She did the same thing the night before after a seminar. "Need a ride?" "Nah, I'll be fine." *click* *ring* "Can you come pick me up?"

That's okay, though, I get my revenge at dinner time. "Are you hungry?" she asks. "No, I'm fine." Then as soon as I smell food: "Can I have some of yours?"

So I pick her up and she is sloppy! It was a treat to see her that drunk, and sooo happy. She's giggling and laughing... she's a really fun drunk, not the kind that makes you embarrassed to be around. And since usually I'm the fool and she's the reserved one, it was nice to switch roles for a change.

I take her home and pawn her off on Lupe, who's watching a movie. It wasn't really fair but heck, it was about 2AM, I had to work, she didn't, and she can handle it. That's one woman who can handle anything. I go to sleep.

Then Lupe wakes me up. "She's going to take a shower." Uh oh. She can barely stand up, and nowhere in Lupe's lease does it say that she has to see either of us nekkid. So I make sure Singular doesn't hurt herself in the bathroom, get her some ice water (which she refuses), put the trash can next to the bed (which she doesn't need- the woman is invincible) and she passes out.

Right at that time (3AM) Brooklyn comes home from the Abbey with six rock'n'rollin friends from, well, Brooklyn. They're out here for a gig and need a place to crash. They have two big jugs with them: Rock'n'Rye and Rebel Yell. Oh boy. Gabriel fuckin' flips out, and when I try to put him away in my bedroom, he goes tasmanian devil on me and adds to my growing collection of cat-scratch scars on my forearms. Parents of children have photo albums, I've got my forearms. "Remember this one? That was the time Singular threw the toy mouse, and it landed on my lap, and Gabey was up on the cat tree..."

So I pass out. I set the alarm a little late, thinking there's no way in hell Singular is going to work the next day. But sure enough, she's up and ready, something that has always awed me about her. She can pull an all-nighter for the hell of it. It's like she needs no sleep like some creepy android.

We exit the room into a wasteland. There are rockstars passed out all over the floor. The place is trashed. It looks like the Oval Office after Dubya bought an eight-ball. Eggs all over the kitchen floor (eggs?). Pictures knocked off the wall and broken glass everywhere. My monstrous aloe plant scattered to the winds, the pot looking like someone sat in it. The stereo pulled out of its cabinet and scattered around the living room. And that's just what I saw as I shook my head and headed out to work.

Folks, I only have a few things that are precious to me. Everything I own was lost in a flood the year after I left college, and consequently I'm not so attached to material things. So I did a quick check. Laptop- okay. Cats- alive. Expensive antique mirror that we're keeping because Singular's boss's wife hates it- okay. I chuckled at the chaos and left for work.

This is the sort of thing you can't get mad about unless you come home and the place doesn't look like it never happened. You can't expect a rockin' party to be cleaned up by 7AM, but you can expect it by 7PM. Lupe's got a different opinion, since her bedroom's right next to the common area and she says they were blasting the radio and playing their instruments until 5.

We'll see how things look when I get home from work. I'm sure it will be as spotless as your house when your parents get home after a weekend away and know that you had a party because the place is too clean. If not, I'm going to start knockin' heads together like muthafuckin' Moe.

Here I am, posting twice today. But that's the limit! You're allowed a what-I-did-yesterday post, and a heres-a-wacky-link post. That's it.

Thought this article from Forbes was pretty funny. It's the top paid executives in 2001 and how much they made versus how much they made their company. Number one is Larry Ellison of Oracle, who made $340,000 an hour and dropped the company's stock value by 25%.

The article 101 Dumbest Moments In Business is full of companies paying top execs fat cash while dicking over other employees. Enron shows up 15 times. My favorite is when they paid $200,000 for their executive suite in Enron field "due to contractual obligations" while skipping out of a $200,000 commitment to the Boys and Girls club. So compassionate!

These business hijinks are too funny for me to get angstyradicalpreachy right now. But think of it from the perspective of Joe Sixpack, average 'mericans like you and I. Companies are increasingly cutting jobs in the U.S. and sending them overseas in order to "remain competitive". Meanwhile they're paying their top execs A BILLION DOLLARS a year. The "Wake of 9-11" (gawd that phrase is getting on my nerves) is just another excuse to cut jobs... remember when United's mechanics went on strike and Dubya forced them to work anyway? That's reassuring. Firestone's hundreds of deaths due to crappy tires? Those tires were made by scabs that the comp'ny brought in after the workers struck. Greeeeat. Lots of companies are outsourcing customer service to India. I'm sure that will lead to my getting my telecom issues resolved easier. So you send these jobs to India, you've got a small crowd of disgustingly rich executives, and who's left to buy the products the companies are making? How is this good for our economy? They're digging out from underneath themselves. There is no recession, just a widening gap between the rich and the poor. It's being passed off as a result of terrorist attacks that themselves were a result of the same damn rich folks trying to steal from the poor and give to the rich in other countries.

Something tells me folks aren't going to put up with it much longer.

Read an article today that really pissed me off, for the author made several assumptions about bloggers that were directly contrary to my purpose in having a blog at all:

-That hypertext-heavy prose is anything but extremely annoying and unreadable, Memepool for example reads like the text version of one of those chock-full furniture store ads that falls out of the sunday paper. It, and all the other look-at-the-meme-I-found-on-another-site-just-like-mine blogs, are little more than a sidebar link list with articles and conjunctions.

-That blogs have to link to other blogs to 'survive', as if their survival was dependant on the reader and linker (who have nothing to do with the site itself) and nothing to do with the person who maintains it. What determines a blog's survival is the motivation of the creator, who may be doing it for a high google rating (the online equivalent of the rainbow-haired JOHN 3:16 guy at ballgames, a person who seeks fame for doing nothing but seeking fame), to keep in touch with friends who have been scattered by the winds, or just to get their thoughts down 'on paper'. I myself do it to keep a record of my life so that I can look back and actually see where the time went. I allow others to read and comment simply because it keeps me humble.

-"These on-line versions of Diary of a Nobody offer little to encourage repeat viewing, the ultimate ambition of any blogger."

Again, that the purpose of the blog is fame and not self-expression. EVERY blog is a diary of a nobody. The most-read blogs are often from the cockiest of asswipes who, in the end, is just a loser with a web page. Yes, even if you're Wil Wheaton. Again, remember that the quality of your life and the time you spend on your webpage are inversely proportional.

-That linking to memes makes your blog anything but just like every other damn meme-linking blog out there, as if the world was engaged in a collective effort to google-bomb rather than to actually write anything.

-And then, at the bottom, it complains about dilution of the concept, that the thrill of reading a diary is the 'found intimacy' and you don't get that with a blog! Well, what did you expect, if everybody's doing nothing but linking to memes, keeping it short, and selling out to whatever will bring in more repeat readership?!?!

The world does not need another daily site full of wacky links. It's already got one*. The best thing you can offer to the world with your blog is an insight into yourself, and the more of your heart you reveal on the blog, the better it will be, regardless of how many people read it. Remember, you're not in this for the money. Readership gets you nothing but too big for your britches. And if you're posting three, four times a day? Get outside and get some fresh air, okay?

*::snicker:: I told them we already got one!

Spent four days in Austin, TX. Some idiot on the flight there tried to get up and go to the restroom during takeoff, and again during landing. Dressed in a cowboy outfit (with blue vinyl pants and clown shoes) in an attempt to blend in. Failed at that attempt.

Spent the entire weekend, and I'm talkin twenty hours a day, chatting and laughing with the 25 or so net-nerds who had gathered there for the heck of it. There was much drinking. We left the house three times, once for Mexican food and twice for Tex-Mex. Got to see some old friends and put faces on familiar handles. Let's see, in terms of this blog, recent commentors Big Daddy & Terri were there, maybe others if you read back far enough. What's nice about these things is that you meet people who you wouldn't otherwise associate, usually because of your own prejudices. A corporate chef who revealed that Al Gore is a double-dipper. A woman who runs imaging equipment on oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico. A guy from Apple (all hail king nerd on campus!). A musclecar-lovin Texas freak/nerd. An engineer at AMD. Other folks who I see once a year but talk to every day and are closer to me than many of my meatspace friends. And the expected contingent of folks who were really quiet and shy in real life yet brash and vocal online. Who'da thunk it?

The only thing in Austin that better synthesized nerdiness and freakiness was this.

I couldn't even post on this blog, we were so busy joking and laughing and carrying on. A busy blog is the sign of a boring life, you know. Anytime you don't see an update here, rest assured that I, your hero, am out living life to the fullest, while you, dear reader, are sitting and staring at a computer screen. :D

I participated in just one evening of the Maxim Road Trip. While Maxim Magazine generally represents to me everything that is wrong with the male gender, I wouldn't pass up an opportunity to see "Primary" (KC) in action. The contest is simple- go on a road trip, record it, winner gets their trip in Maxim and $8000 worth of road trip gear.

"I'll hit the town with you guys if you show up by 10:30" I sez. "No proooooblem!" sez Primary, "We're leaving now, we'll be there in an hour, meet us at the House of Blues at 10:30."

I show up at 11:00 and he's not there, so I give him a call. "We're about 45 minutes away," he says. Fortunately HOB is located beneath the Marina Towers where "Monkey Boy" (I think that's how he posts here) and BlueJaye live. So I popped in on them to wait.

Sho' nuff, 12:15 they roll up. We go into the House where Scratch, a group of DJs from the movie of the same name, are playing. We headed straight to the velvet ropes. The way they do it is pretty shwanky, behind the ropes is an elevator which leads only to the fourth floor, home of the Foundation Room. This VIP lounge costs something like $200 to get in for one night, and even more for a membership. All I had to say, though, was two words- "Johnny Payphone"*- and we strolled on in.

As you can see from the picture, this place was very upscale. I really liked it, it was very comfortable and that level of luxury carries with it excellent service. After a nice relaxing drink (on the house), we were escorted to our opera booth.

Since it was so late, we only caught Z-Trip a hippin' and a hoppin' and a bippin' and a boppin'. He possessed quite a few skills with which he could pay the bills. At closin' time, I had to skeedaddle, bein' a work nite and all. When I left, they were getting their picture taken hugging bum and trying to convince each other to jump in the river.

Between the Foundation Room, the opera booth, and the drinks, the House of Blues probably comped us each $400. And there were twelve of us! I was quite impressed. All I spent on the evening was the $1.50 for the el' ride.

-----------


*this is a lie.

My dad cracks me up. He's so fucking nonchalant about everything. He's one of the most modest people I know. He's the head PR guy at a state university, so he has these odd brushes with fame (usually speaking on behalf of the school), and he never tells me, until one day I'm reading about him in the Washington Post. I talk to him all the time! He'll only mention something if I happen to direct the conversation to the specific topic that involves it.

Just yesterday I sent him this article that I found on Fark about a group of Indians who've named their intramural team the Fighting Whities. Pretty funny shit. My dad had to deal with the uni's mascot change a couple years back (thus the Post) and I knew he would get a chuckle out of it. Then he says, "Oh, yeah, did I tell you I was in Sports Illustrated?" Heh. My dad. He says it like it was his turn to be eraser-clapper in school, like it was bound to happen sooner or later. The quote was pretty funny, I'll get a copy of the magazine tomorrow and post it verbatim.

Then last week I'm talking to him on the phone and he casually mentions, "Oh, yeah, by the way, had a beer with Dave Barry the other night." Dave Barry is one of my dad's heroes. If I had a beer with one of my heroes, EVERYBODY would hear about it. Incessantly.

I guess my dad's way is the best way. There was this guy in school who was a concierge, and the Dave Matthews Band stayed at the hotel, and he got them whisky or something so they gave him a backstage pass. Then, before the show, he got to smoke dope with them. (I know what you're thinking- Dave Matthews?!? A stoner!?! Who knew?) Well, from that point on, everytime you saw the guy, he'd say, "Hey, did I tell you about the time I smoked dope with the Dave Matthews Band?!?!" and he'd proceed to tell the story (and it wasn't much of a story- "I went backstage, and they had a hookah, and we smoked dope out of it") while everyone rolled their eyes. It got to the point where he became The Guy Who Smoked Dope With Dave Matthews. To this day, I don't remember his real name.

The Notorious B.U.S. rolled into town last night. Unfortunately, they got here at 12:15 AM, so I wasn't about to join them for Whirlyball. Apparently they've had quite a crazy trip. Watch the website for updates.

So I see this bike messenger come in yesterday who has half a beard. One side of his face was all scruffy, as most bike messengers are, and the other half was clean shaven.

I'm all for facial hair experimentation. I wish we still lived in the days of mustache wax and sideburns that turned into a mustache. But somebody oughta tell that boy he looks like a fool.

In college, I experimented with every facial hairstyle except the hitler mustache and the above-mentioned burns-to-stache. Full beard, goatee, lambchops, amish beard, van dyke, handlebars, soul patch, imperial, and a lousy attempt at Sam Shepard's mustache (nobody but Sam can have that mustache). I've looked stupid for the sake of having wacky facial hair. And this guy looked to ME like a chucklehead!

Okay, they gotta hike that one pant leg. It's utilitarian, not a g-thang. They also have to tattoo that leg. It's like the badge of the job. They are under strict instructions to flirt with the receptionist. They don't have to be scruffy wastoids, it's just that the job attracts the type. You can look however you want and you must be absolutely batshit to get into traffic with people who all have propulsion systems, armor, inertia, and blind spots. It's bad enough DRIVING in traffic! Perhaps that bravery/stupidity drives a man to shave half his beard.

So, drivers, I'm offering 100 points for the fool with half a beard.

Busy day Saturday. Brooklyn had a gig at Andy's, which is a jazz club downtown. Right nearby, window-washing equipment fell off of the Hancock tower and crushed two cars and killed four folks. So I risked my life to go see my roomie's gig!

Went shoe shopping at this really cool store. Picked out a pair that were $90 but on clearance. The clerk said, "If you have $30 cash on you right now, I'll let you walk out of here with those shoes but without a receipt." I asked if they were going to fall apart as soon as I left the store. "I work from 11 to 7 on weekends. You have an eight-hour window to come kick my ass." He put the cash in his wallet. Then he said, "Speak of this to noone, and you shall live."

Then we went to hang out at my friend Mayo Mick's house with her sister and cousin. One of those apartments fulla immi-gints. They moved from Micktown to Oak Lawn, which was an absolute nightmare. They have no streetsigns, and when you pull into a car lot to turn around cuz you passed the street that you might be looking for but it didn't have a sign, the cops pull you over. Then they say to follow them to the road you want but they forget and drive back to the station instead. Then there are drunk drivers swerving all over the streets. It's really terrifying when you're driving down the street, and someone's coming towards you swerving across their two lanes AND yours, and then when you miraculously miss them, they spin out and come after you. We were lucky to make it home alive.

So Kate Schutt was playing at Uncommon Ground, a coffee shop. I hate coffee shops. They thrive on the type of person who likes the idea of sitting in a coffee shop. It's like self-reinforcing pretention. I've been in only one other in the city, up in Lincoln Square where I used to live. Five minutes in that place and BER BER BER the snot-meter's going off all over and we're surrounded by self-righteous white-tower liberals and service staff whose rudeness could put a record-store clerk to shame.

I was surprised by this place. They had meat on the menu. The wait staff seemed nice... but BER BER BER no smoking in there! Now, this by itself is only a red flag. It doesn't assure unbearable snottiness. But it betrays the underlying philosophy of leftism, a belief that one's lifestyle choices can and should be pushed onto others. The very phrase bleeding-heart comes from this attitude of whining about little injustices while ignoring the fact that the world is a tough place. That the universe is cold and harsh. That life is, in fact, a bitch. Now, I believe that our goal as a society is to move away from kill-or-be-killed and towards interdependancy, with basic human needs and rights for all. But I recognize that my views are not the views of the people of this country, and to push them on them will only piss them off.

Vegetarians and- shudder- vegans are the worst about this. You don't often meet vegetarians who don't carry their dietary choice like a chip on their shoulder. Or rather, you do, but you don't notice they're vegetarian, because they don't scoff in disgust at what's on your plate. People who don't eat meat but who don't care what I meet? Cool. Good for you, and I mean it. You'll probably live longer. People who wanna tell me what to eat? I got some meat for ya, riiiight here.

Not eating meat for dietary reasons is very wise. It makes you feel a lot better. Not eating meat because you like the widdle animals is stupid. That's right, your lifestyle choice is stupid. You are doing something for a stupid reason. You're making fake hot dogs and burgers and bacon out of soybeans because you don't like the idea of something dying for you, when in fact you're connected to a society that is killing, constantly, in countless ways. You cut meat out of your diet, you're reducing the amount of death you're responsible for by a miniscule percentage.

This is why vegans deserve a pimp-slap. Vegetarianism can be a choice for one's health. Veganism is UNHEALTHY, and for a stupid, stupid reason. Now that I'm seven years away from that idealistic first year in college, I know way too many radical lefitists who are starting to suffer from things like B12 deficiency. On one hand, their illness is something to feel sorry about, but on the other hand, you wanna smack 'em and say, "What the fuck did you think would happen when you didn't eat right, dumbshit?"

Y'see, vegans and vegetarians on the widdle-animal kick are all hypocrites. They are complicit, yet self-righteous. Would a vegan with this no-animal-products chip on their shoulder drink milk from Bessie, the family cow who's been coddled and brushed and well-fed her whole life? I doubt it, it would shatter their black and white world view. Would a vegetarian turn down a meal that contained meat if it were a gift from a hungry villiage in the third world? I bet they would, insulting the town. Stick a vegetarian or vegan on a desert island with nothing to eat but bacon and see how long they last. It's like the old joke- how many Straight-edgers does it take to drink a six-pack? One, if he's all alone.

Speaking of jokes, does humor come from some protein in steak? Because it seems that once people stop eating it, they lose their ability to enjoy life. It all ties back into this coffeehouse culture, where we can tittle-tittle about snotty literary references but can't ever belly-laugh about anything that might offend anyone. Gloria-Stalinist feminists, vegans, nonsmokers, women who are lesbian purely for political reasons, coffee-shop patrons... it's like they've forgotten how to enjoy life. Like making a lifestyle choice that makes you feel superior to others allows you to erect a barrier between yourself and anyone who you deem wrong in one way or another. I know, because I headed down this path myself. You lose the ability to forgive, to accept flaw, and it makes you miserable. Then, since misery loves company, you lash out at meat-eaters, smokers, whatever your chip of choice is. Well guess what? It sucks to be you. Here's a stepladder, get down off of the high horse, and come wallow in the mud. Allow yourself to err. Your white-tower friends won't forgive you, but the rest of us will. After all, WE'RE only human.

So the epilogue is that the coffeehouse turned out to be snooty after all. The friendly waitperson must have been new there or something. The rest of the crew quickly dispelled our initial estimation. But since Ellis and Kate keep playing there, if I wanna see 'em I gotta go. Maybe I'll order ice water and light up a ceegar.

Fausto, fire-eating amazonian drag princess, finally put some damn pictures up from the show we went to two weeks ago. It was so bizarre that I felt that my powers of description wouldn't do it justice if I just wrote about it, so here are some pictures for your enjoyment. The show was held at a Vietnamese restaurant that had a little performance space in the back. I think they use it for parties, cuz there was a little pagoda-style hut where they could serve food to the revelers. Our hosts were Fausto, pictured at right; Joan Crawford, a coworker of mine; and an ancient and mystical talking crystal skull, Mu-Mu A-Chu.

Joan had put us on the list, but alas, we did not know, and had to pay like common rabble ;) The first act was "Silky Jumbo", who appeared at first to be a seven-foot hair extension. Silky gets her name from the brand of hair extensions she wears. She sang some song that involved at one point a pink-afroed puppet popping out of the hair extension and rapping. Then the hair came off and she was... well, see for yourself, below.

After a seven-foot singing hair extension, the next two acts seemed pretty tame. One was your classic guy-with-guitar and his touching but non-abnormal love songs, and one was a spoken word poet who was really quite good, but that was probably because he was more like a storyteller than a poet.


Then came some really freaky guy dressed like some sort of imp who hopped around and burst balloons with a pin affixed to his crotch. I won't go into any more detail, I'm still recovering from it.
Then came Scott Free, the guy on the left in the first photo, who said, "Yeah, I recorded this song for my boyfriend," and proceeded to wail on the guitar and sing

MOUTH FULL OF DICK
WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?!?!
mmmph! mblmmblmmmmff! mmffff!
MOUTH FULL OF DICK
WHAT ARE YOU SAYING!?!?!
mmmpgh! mblblbmffmph!

and so on for quite a while. Lupe and Singular were incapacitated with laughter by it. It was definitely the best song of the night. He was followed by a guy who sang a touching irish song about a guy who returns to his hometown to find it destroyed, while the singer flipped through a WTC calendar... dressed in a sparkly g-string. What is it with gay men? They can't even sing a tribute to the WTC without bringing asscrack and a package into it somehow.

At right you can see Joan, who I work with.
Another Guy With Guitar, and then some dadaist group that took mangoes out of a net suspended from the ceiling and fed them to audience members. Then a guy in a veil with a huge headwrap and some performance about the restrictive clothing of his homeland. This, like many of the acts, left us looking at each other with the "ber?" look, but heck, it was a variety show.

Members of the Chicago Kings were in the audience, lookin' hot of course. The talking crystal skull told lots of funny jokes. There were free psychic readings. I can't wait until the next show.

These pictures are from http://homepage.mac.com/eatfire/, and Fausto's webpage (with info on upcoming events) is at www.feastoffools.com.

Oh, and the food was good, too. Mmmm, bo nhung dam.

Oh lordy. I've had so much trouble with telecom providers, spent so much time on hold, that it's stopped being frustrating and moved to expected and then amusing. This is a bad sign.

The latest attempt at customer-screwing has come from AT&T, or American Telegraph & Totallyfuckyouover. I get this bill for $14.20 for long distance from a company I've never been a customer of. If I don't pay it, they'll cancel my service (oh no! Don't cancel the service I didn't sign up for!) and I'll be entered in the National Consumer Telecommunications Data Exchange, which is just like the US Merchandisers Association, both of which are just big databases shared by the whole industry to deny service to anyone in the database. I don't care about the $14, or even the principle, but if I'm in the NCTDE, the next time I try to sign up for phone service, they'll say "sorry but no". USMA is even worse- they record incidents of pilfering or shoplifting- not arrests, not convictions, but incidents. If you're even suspected of shoplifting, like maybe you enter a store while being black and they search you and find nothing, you go in the database, and they might kick you out of any store. A friend of mine was caught shoplifting in a Meijer, and months later was actually stopped at the door by security in another Meijer, who either bounced a security cam image of his face off of the DB or just went by his plate numbers.

So I call AT&T and they say that I can't contest the charge. I just can't. They show that I signed up for AT&T on September 11, 2001.

Lady, I said, I assure you that on September 11, 2001, I was not concerned with who my long distance provider was. I don't know what you were doing that day, but I remember it succinctly, and the foremost thought in my mind was not who was going to provide my long distance service from that day on, but rather whether or not there would be a that day on.

It's good to know that even in times of strife and uncertainty, telecom companies were still striving to screw people over.

So she says I need to take it up with my local provider, Amerifuckers. Well, I quit them for a month, and ever since I came back, I've been on the "Ass-Kiss" plan, which means they'll do anything to keep me as a customer. Even a little dance, even though I wouldn't be able to see them do it. In fact, they've been so good (monthly bill down from $140 to $29) that I'm going to promote them from "Amerifuckers" to "Amerifucks", as they have been very good to me lately and are no longer fuckers, the fucks. My friendly asskissing rep said right off the bat, "You been slammed" and offered to stay on the line with me and call ATT back.

I called them back, and as soon as I said, "I been slammed" they transferred me to the "Slam Line", which strikes me as pretty funny when I should be pissed off. Slamming, in case it hasn't happened to you yet, is just when they switch your LD provider without permission and charge you big bucks until you notice it. So for a company to have a special line dedicated to fixing a problem it creates deliberately is akin to Microsoft's 900-number tech support for all of their "features", or maybe the Dow Chemical Flipper-Baby Hotline or even Firestone SUV Tire Refund Line.

The lady on the Slam line was a real hardass and got into a terse argument with the Amerifucks rep, and in the end, said that if I didn't want to pay the $14 then I'd have to take it up with my local branch of the FCC. Just wonderful. They charge me for something I didn't ask for, and then when I don't pay, threaten to ding me for life (not to mention ding my credit) unless I call the FCC over a measly $14. And I know they've spent more than that on postage and materials with all the collection notices. At this point, my Customer Asskissing Assistant offers to adjust the amount in order to provide the best possible yackety smackety.

I had her put a Pick Freeze on my local toll and LD providers. I'd advise you all to do the same.

Another issue of The Roommate.

Z-Tel Online Customer Service Takes the Turing Test

You Be The Judge!

Please wait for a site operator to respond.

long pause...

You are now chatting with 'Randy'

Randy: Hello. How may I assist you?

Johnny: Hello, Randy. My home phone number is XXX-XXX-XXXX.

long pause...

Johnny: heh. Seems like "live" person is an overstatement.

long pause...

Randy: How may I help you?

long pause... this is where I start to get suspicious. Note the repeated question.

Johnny: I just received a bill for Ztel, for a billing period that *began* a week after I stopped being a customer.

Johnny: :)

Randy: Please bear with me for a moment while I review your account.

long pause... or PROCESSING?!?!

Randy: Your billing is correct. You were credited for the time you did not have Z-Tel service on the latest invoice.

Johnny: It shows that I was credited $12. Then it asks for $247 for the period of January 19th-Feb 20th

Johnny: My Ameritech bill is for the same period, with the same calls and everything.

long pause... in a darkened closet in Delaware somewhere, das blinken lights indicate the furious calculation of the solution to my problem.

Randy: Please fax a copy of the Ameritec bill to 1-888-343-1319 ATTN: Randy

Randy: Randy(1820)

Johnny: Sure! Will that resolve the situation?

Randy: Yes, I can then review the 2 bills and issue the appropriate credit.

Johnny: Thanks, Randy.

Randy: You're welcome

Randy: Thank you for chatting with Z-Tel.

I decide to apply a little test.

Johnny: a/s/l?

Randy: No personal information can be given.

Aha!

Johnny: .oO(I just know it, I'm chatting with a machine)

Randy: No machine, just business related information.

ME NO AM MACHINE. ME HUMAN, WITH COMPLEX BIOLOGICAL FUNCTIONS LIKE HUMAN. ME HERE TO SERVE YOU, CUSTOMER. ME HAVE HUMAN DESIRE TO PLEASE.

I apply the final test:

Johnny: Randy, how does working in customer service make you *feel*?

Randy: Is there anything else I may assist you with today?

Johnny: Nope. I think I got my answer. Thanks!

Randy: You're welcome

Randy: Thank you for chatting with Z-Tel.

Friday Night- Monty Python night. Guadalupe hadn't seen 'em, and Singular had only seen them with the unbearably annoying type of person who says the lines along with the movies. I tried not to be this person. I watched all the movies incessantly when I was a teenager, grew avoided the people who wouldn't shut up about them in college*, and haven't seen 'em in about ten years. Even though I know what an unforgivable faux pas it was, I found myself blurting, "Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farsical aquatic ceremony!"

I have failed you, Guadalupe.

Saturday night- Lun's b-day. Our reservation of twenty netted us the back room at Sangko, some sushi bar. It had a little hut built into it with the teeny-short table, and of course the karaoke laserdisc Happy Birthday song. They also played the song "Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen,"** which is a really nasty tribute to pederasty if you have the lyrics bouncing on the screen for you. Then a party at an apartment that was actually next door to one of the crappy dives we looked at when we moved here. Compared to that one, this apartment was quite nice. They had a stove rather than a hot-plate spattered with crusty beans, no hippy wallpaper (in fact, no pictures of mushrooms anywhere), and no Ray's Music Exchange poster, which I was quite surprised to see. They're a pretty good jam band from Cinci, and friends-of-friends at my alma mater, but don't see 'em sober! They actually opened for the Jazz Mandolin Project at the House of Blues last month. Go see the Jazz Mandolin Project, if you can get a ticket. Stunning.
This apartment also seemed to be suspiciously sparsely decorated. There were no decorations below shoulder height. I found out why- a big, giant, Great-Dane-lookin' beast hiding in the bedroom. He couldn't come out, though, not with all the people there. Too bad- sometimes it's nice to get some good ol' fashioned dog-lovin' (on a temporary basis, of course, just like it's nice to hold a baby but not to have one) after being ignored by the cats so much. Even though a dog like that would probably bite my head***.

Oh yeah, and they fired the Dot-Bomb CEO from work on Friday. Y'see, my company doesn't usually hire schmoozes. But last year, when they fired the one that they did have, they replaced him with another schmooze! This guy was the former CEO of a dot-bomb, and he had the same Sales Hair as the guy he replaced, and I think they only hired him because he was a member of some club for Primaries with our President, who he was all buddy-buddy with.

Now, being a hip entrepreneureal Fast Company, the office is in a converted warehouse. We've got the big exposed timbers (heck, exposed everything), the all-glass conference room, the whole shpeil. A result of this is that the offices lining the walls are for the VPs, and the middle is where everybody else sits. Well, Dot-Bomb CEO was hired as a sales guy, and he got a cubicle like the rest of this. This wasn't enough for him, so he just sort of moved in to an office that was empty awaiting a VP of Sales for one of the two companies. Just moved his stuff into the window office, and even started locking the door.

There are people who have been at our company since its conception 10 years ago who sit at cubicles. They don't care where they sit. They're there to do their job, not to act important. So you can imagine this guy, waltzing in with a big rainmaker rep, and settling into the VP of Sales's office with his slick hair. And not generating any business.

They tried to fire him around Xmas, but he ran to the President and begged. At that point, they kicked him out of his "office" and back into a cubicle. Well, at some point, he must have pissed off the Prez, cuz that was the last thread keeping him there. He tried to argue for his job. How pitiful. If it's come to the point where you go into your boss's office and the HR manager is there, it's too late. You're fired.

I administrate the database that the Sales and Marketing departments use, so I always know ahead of time when the axe is about to fall. Gotta lock 'em out of the system and all that. Usually it sucks to know before they do. This time it was fun. The Schmooze would always rub my fucking belly in that buddy-buddy way that guys in the office are supposed to clap each other on the backs. My BELLY!?! Get your hands off my belly, take that Shellac out of your hair, get your ass out of the window office, and HIT THE ROAD, suckaaaaa!





----------------
*This seems to be a common trend in college, where the inbound freshman sees the Society for Creative Anachronism on the list of school clubs, thinks it sounds fun, attends a meeting, and leaves the meeting pale and very, very scared.
**click on Neil Sedaka for lyrics from his very own AOL website.
***When I was little, I was attacked by a dog that bit my head. He dug his lower teeth into my cheek, where I still have scars, and his upper teeth into the back of my head. Then he did that dog-shaky thing they do when they have something limp in their mouth. Since then, my first instinct whenever I see a big dog is that it wants to bite my head.

I arrived home yesterday to find a package from grammaw. Lo and behold, boiled peanuts and pork rinds! They're both from the flea market near her house in Cullman AL, where they deep-fat-fry the pigskin right in front of you and boil the peanuts in a big ol' 50-gallon drum. Peanuts have to be boiled right out of the ground, which is why you can't find 'em anywhere they're not grown. I usually only get to eat them once a year. Pork rinds can be packaged, but these are so much tastier because four days ago they were "high on the hog". I love my grammaw. She knows just how to make me happy.

Well, when I called to thank her, my grandpa was pretty tore up. He lost his brother Wilford this weekend, and his other brother Bert was expected to die anytime. I haven't heard if he passed away last night or not. My family is a long-lived family, not due to good genes but rather to stubborness. I knew four of my great-grandparents, and they're the only immediate relatives that have died in my lifetime. One of 'em was told he had six months to live, so he gave away all his posessions to his sons, and lived five more years. My aunt Barbara once broke her back in her 40's (a grain auger fell on her) and was told she'd never walk again, she told the doctor "fuck you" and was walking in six months. Just last month my other grandpa was told he needed two inches of his colon removed immediately, but he left the doctor's office and went and dug a 175-foot trench for a water line. He's 85! So while my grandpa was sad and worried, we're talking about people in their nineties who have outlived all the doctor's expectations, so it wasn't so much tragic as it was just a sad part of life. Still, it hurt me to hear my grandpa, who I envision as the embodiment of strength, so hurt and helpless. He's an old southern gentleman, not the kind of man you say "I love you" to. I did anyway.

Wilford had been in a coma for the last couple of weeks. Pawpaw visited him last week, and then Saturday night sat at home waiting for the phone call. When the phone rang around midnight, they knew it was bad news. Well, whattaya know, it was Wilford! He'd just called to say goodbye. Heh. Stubborn ol' coot wouldn't leave withouts saying goodbye. He died a few hours later.