Humanoids are stupid. Laugh at them.

Friday, June 29, 2007

For those who care: I love this shit.

Free Friday Flicks at the Hatch Shell

July 6th: Join a big green ogre and his gang of friends once again, as they travel to Far Far Away and fall under the influence of a bottle of magic potion.

July 13th: When a group of forest creatures find out their home has been turned into a housing development, it takes a raccoon con artist to convince the creatures to invade the development and take back from the humans…

July 20th: Everyone’s favorite wizard is back once again as he competes against the best wizards from other schools and is then encountered by the returning evil lord.

July 27th: A rag tag group of animals finds out they only have a short time to escape the wrath of the melting ice caps, or they may be washed away!

August 3rd: When his nuclear powered DeLorean reaches 88 Miles per hour, this teenage slacker is transported from 1985 to 1955 in the blink of an eye, now he just has to figure out how to get back…

August 10th: “The King of Rock and Roll” falls in love in the entertainment capitol of the world!

August 17th: This young girl finds out very quickly that there is “no place like home” after encountering a wicked witch.

August 24th: This tap dancing penguin may be a social outcast, but his unique talent in the end may just end up keeping his species “happy.”

August 31st: This plump pig needs the help of a spider to make sure he doesn’t end up on someone’s dinner table, and can remain on the farm.

Beep, is that you under the white sheet?


What Could Sink the iPhone
Friday, Jun. 29, 2007 By JEREMY CAPLAN

Expectations come at a price. Dubbed the "Jesus Phone," the iPhone has raised the bar of consumer anticipation so high that regardless of how well IT actually works, some will be disappointed. Steve Jobs hopes to sell 10 million of his newest toy by the end of next year, but there are several factors that may spoil the iPhone party.
Business
The iPhone Dials Up the Competition

Cost
At $500 a pop and $60 a month for the cheapest flavor of service, plus various taxes and fees, the iPhone will cost at least $2,000 over the course of a two-year contract. Those who don't want a data plan of the sort the iPhone comes automatically bundled with, may stick with other companies' free phones and cheaper plans. The iPhone's data plan actually adds less to the total price than similar offerings from Verizon, for instance, but because there is no way to opt out of the data plan, those who don't want to use the iPhone's Web capability may find the fee superfluous.

Battery
Steve Jobs and Co. proudly boosted the device's promised battery life recently, claiming it will offer 24 hours of audio playback or 8 hours of talk time. Early reviews score the iphone's battery high compared to many competing phones'. But when consumers use the device as an iPod for hours at a time, watching videos from YouTube and listening to their favorite songs, they might be surprised to find the gadget drooping when they're expecting an important call. There's a precedent for problems with Apple batteries, as many who owned an early iPod model know all too well.

Carrier
AT&T has been bulking up, spending billions in recent years to speed up its EDGE data network, its call capabilities and its 3G, high-speed data system. But the iPhone won't work on AT&T's 3G network, and early reviews question whether at&t's slower edge network will hurt the speed of the iphone's web browsing. AT&T spokesman Mark Siegel says connection speeds can vary widely depending on where and how the phone is used. Some info, like maps, stock quotes and weather updates can load in seconds. But if sites regularly crawl for a full minute before loading, memories of the old days of screeching dial-up may burst the iPhone bubble.

Features
With a decade of experience in the market, Motorola, Nokia, Samsung, Sanyo, Palm and Blackberry, have all been developing iPhone alternatives. Apple left its rivals competitive room by omitting some bells and whistles on the iPhone.

There is no instant messaging program on the phone, just text messaging; the camera lacks zoom, flash and video; some of these features may be added later through software updates; and you won't be able to use it on any U.S. network other than AT&T's for at least two years. That might be time enough for a more broadly accessible phone, available across multiple carriers, to steal some of the iPhone's thunder.

Keyboard
After spending years learning to master Blackberry thumb typing and Palm's Graffiti data entry, some business users may be reluctant to switch over to finger typing on a glass screen. Jobs says it's actually easier to type fast on an iPhone than on a Blackberry, but the test will be whether millions of fingers: fat, flat and stumpy: can navigate the screen as smoothly as veteran techies. If the learning curve proves too steep for early adopters, the early buzz might shift slightly, tempering the enthusiasm of those waiting out the first model's release.

Thursday, June 28, 2007

hmm

Now don't get me wrong, the loss of a young life is always tragic, but you have to wonder, why is the death of a cheerleader more tragic than the death of their colleagues who prefer, say D + D?
When teens die locally, it gets local coverage. But when CHEERLEADERS die locally, CNN picks up the story.

Town mourns 5 cheerleaders killed in fiery crash

[story equipped with smiley, perky faced pictures.]

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Helen Reincarnate.

Crazy Aunt Helen, you may be long dead but you can rest easy knowing that there are people just as crazy as you were, suing whomever they can for whatever stupid shit they can think of. Your spirit lives on, my Aunt, your spirit lives on.

Michigan Woman Claims Starburst Candies Are Dangerously Chewy in Lawsuit

Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Starburst Fruit Chews are exactly as their name would indicate: chewy. But one Michigan woman says the candies are so chewy, they should come with a warning label.

Victoria McArthur, of Romero, Mich., is suing Starbursts' parent company, Mars Inc., for more than $25,000 for "permanent personal injuries" she claims she sustained after biting into one of their yellow candy in 2005.

"I don't know, maybe about 3 chews and it literally locked my jaw … and it just literally pulled my jaw out of joint," she told MyFoxDetroit.com.

McArthur's lawyer, Brian Muawad, says the candies caused her to develop a condition known as temporal mandibular joint dysfunction. McArthur says she has had trouble chewing, talking and sleeping since the incident.

Muawad says McArthur offered to negotiate a settlement with Starburst's insurer to pay for her rehabilitation, but the company said no way. A spokesman for Mars refused to comment.

McArthur says she just wants to make sure nobody else meets the same end she did when she decided to indulge her sweetooth.

"I don't want to see anybody else have to go through what I have gone through from eating a piece of candy that was supposed to be soft chew," she said.

question of the day: would YOU bang any of these hos?

No? That's what I thought. I mean, me neither.

Tampa prostitution sting nets arrests
Using funds from Edward Byrne Memorial Grant, The Tampa Police Department has been decreasing the spike in summer crime. Police have been saturating the neighborhoods with a strong police presence, arming the citizens with information on police services and targeting known repeat offenders.

Mugshots will be updated as they become available.

WEBER,MARY ELIZABETH
UNLAWFUL ACTS AS A PRECURSOR TO PROSTITUTION


WRIGHT,DERREN CHRISTOPHER
PROSTITUTION


AUSTIN,LOUIS KENNETH JR
PROSTITUTION


SANCHEZ,MARIA L
PROSTITUTION

I mean, really? you have to be kidding me.

Warren Buffet Pays 17.7% Tax Rate; His Employees Pay 32.9%

Interesting report from the Hillary Clinton fundraiser last night: Warren Buffet complained that he paid a 17.7% tax rate on his $46 million of taxable income in 2006, while his employees paid an average 32.9% tax rate (his receptionist's tax rate was 30%).

Suck it up, Buffet!!! Its 18 % of FORTY SIX MILLION
thats still you having 8 times what I can aspire to make in my lifetime.
get real.

poor spartacus

how can the city of NY, the so-called town of awesome, be so keen on snipping poor sparticus' testes?



come now....the pup needs his...well, puppies...

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Sometimes, I wish I still lived in LA

This bar ENTIRELY VALIDATES those longing feelings.

Going Stag at Seven Grand

Whiskey and Wry
By LINDA IMMEDIATO
Wednesday, June 6, 2007 - 2:00 pm
Seven Grand is a manly man sort of place. The kind of bar that would pay a chick to sit in the window dressed in 1950s pinup garb, pretending to be a cigarette girl on an Esquire cover, but instead looking trapped like a June bug in a Mason jar, or like a red-light-district Amsterdam whore. The eternally vacant stares of long-dead 17-point stags and elks, the prize conquests of better men, gaze on you from above. And looming overhead is a towering wall of Maker’s Mark — drippy red wax as far as the eye can see.



(Photo by Anthony Rich)

My host, who leads me up the kilt-plaid carpeted steps, laughs as he shares a quip that the bourbondisplay makes the place look like “Mark Twain’s dorm room.” I think Hunter S. Thompson or maybe even Tom Wolfe might have been a better choice, but these literary mind games are interrupted by the museumlike diorama of a hunting scene — one more manly man in full hunting plaids, hunting hat, hunting rifle. Freudian penis substitutes abound. Speaking of which, Seven Grand sells cigars — Romeo y Julieta, Macanudo, Torpedo, Churchill — which you can smoke on the outdoor patio that faces an obscenely large vacant building.

Upstairs there are more bucks — in the lighting fixture, on the wallpaper, and stuffed and mounted. There’s more studded leather here than in the Castro District — on seats, benches and tables. It’s opening night and the bartenders look prerequisitely Irish — handsome devils, their smirks daring you to try to drink them under the table. But instead of taking up the challenge, I order a mint julep from the bourbon, Scotch and whiskey list, feeling like Daisy Buchanan. There is definitely a bookish, masculine vibe to the place, a glossy version of the kind of joint you’d find in Fitzgerald, Hemingway or Miller (Henry, not Arthur).

For the next round, to take on the bartender’s silent dare, I order a Maker’s. Neat, of course. With a black and tan back. While we wait for the B&T to settle, the bartender shows me his tattoo of the Seven Grand logo — an impressive buck— on his forearm.

“That’s fake,” I say, as my friend Miss Gullible tugs on his arm.

“It is not,” the bartender protests. “Go on, tug on it. Try and rub it off. You can’t. It’s real.”

I’m not sure if he’s trying to have a laugh, so I smile and say most disbelievingly, “I believe you.”

To be honest, it looks authentic, but who would do that? He tries to scrape it off; it doesn’t budge.

“Do you own stock in the bar?” I finally ask, bewildered.

He doesn’t answer; he’s been called away to pour a drink for one of the cocktail waitresses whose uniform is of the male-fantasy Catholic-schoolgirl variety — short plaid skirt, tight white button-up top and knee socks. The crowd, mostly men, is mixed — hipster boys with moppish hair playing pool and well-dressed older gentlemen ogling the Playboy contingent, a few surgically enhanced trophy-wives-in-waiting who have trickled in.

At one point we introduce ourselves to Cedd Moses, part owner and successful venture capitalist. He’s tall and handsome in a crisp pinstriped suit, looking very distinguished. He brags about the bar’s beer-delivery system, The Nitrogenator NX — it keeps the temperature consistent from the keg to the spout and prevents bubbles from entering the line, making, he claims, the best pint of Guinness in the city. Seven Grand is the first bar in L.A. to have one.

But we can’t hold his attention long enough; a woman with a pair of double-Ds approaches, and he is understandably distracted. My friend and I exchange glances and excuse ourselves. We want to catch the 12-member Pogues-esque Celtic rock band that is about to start, anyway. The mysterious presence of moppy-headed indie boys is explained when we discover that all live music acts are handpicked by Spaceland Productions.

Is Seven Grand an escapist testosterone-plumped joint? Sure. But even with the dead animals, the naughtily dressed waitresses and the too-polished man-by-numbers design, it’s a great place to drink bourbon, puff on a cigar and pretend to be in an imaginary boys club. Even if you’re a girl.


Seven Grand, 515 W. Seventh St., Second Floor, downtown, (213) 614-0737; Mon.-Fri. 4 p.m.-2 a.m., Sat. 8 p.m.-2 a.m., closed Sun.

Reason I love Perez #472

Headline Of The Week Weak


“PETA Calls Michael Moore Fat!

Snap! Click here to read the article accompanying this headline.

Dear Mike,

Congratulations from PETA on the reviews for SiCKO. Although we think
that your film could actually help reform America’s sorely inadequate
health care system, there’s an elephant in the room, and it is you. With all
due respect, no one can help but notice that a weighty health issue is
affecting you personally. We’d like to help you fix that. Going vegetarian
is an easy and life-saving step that people of all economic backgrounds
can take in order to become less reliant on the government’s shoddy
healthcare system, and it’s something that you and all Americans can
benefit from personally. Vegetarians weigh, on average, up to 20 percent
less than their meat-eating counterparts—meaning less weight-related
problems like heart attacks and strokes—and live about eight years longer.
I’m sure that your fans would appreciate having you around longer! By
going vegetarian, you would also provide a powerful message of personal
responsibility for one’s health, allowing others to become less reliant on a
system that doesn’t care about them. As they say at Nike (sorry!): “Just do
it.” We can help, but first, here are some facts:

• Vegetarians suffer far fewer heart attacks than meat-eaters.
Cholesterol, the principal culprit in clotted arteries, is found only in
animal products. Thus, those of us who forgo the flesh, milk, and eggs
of animals have a heart disease mortality rate one-tenth the rate of our
flesh-eating counterparts. In fact, a healthy vegan diet has been shown
to reverse heart disease.
• Vegetarians have far lower rates of cancer than meat-eaters.
Ninety-five percent of the toxic chemicals that humans are exposed to
come from meat. Thus, women who eat meat daily have 3.8 times the
breast cancer rate of women who don’t. Men who eat meat daily get
fatal prostate cancer at 3.6 times the rate of vegetarian men.
• Vegetarians are not as likely to be obese as meat-eaters. Obesity
kills about 112,000 people per year in the U.S., according to The
Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), and makes many
more people sick. It can also lead to serious diseases like diabetes. The
CDC also reported that overweight and obesity accounted for nearly
10 percent of all American medical expenses in a recent year. On
average, vegetarians weigh up to 20 percent less than meat-eaters.
• Vegetarians don’t run the risk of getting sick from contaminated
meat. Sure, they may get sick when animal waste is sprayed on
vegetables and fruit, but meat is the big hazard. Just as dead humans
rot and attract maggots and bacteria, so do other dead animals.

Millions of people in the U.S. get sick—and thousands die—each year
from eating meat contaminated with salmonella, campylobacter, E.
coli, or one of the many other bacterium found on animal flesh—even
after it’s been cooked.

Yes, America’s health care system needs to be fixed, but personal
responsibility is a big part of why people look and feel as ill as they do.
We hope that you will focus your personal lens on the benefits of
vegetarianism—which can satisfy you easily—stop turning a blind eye to
meat’s impact on America’s health, and lead the charge for a healthier
America by taking our 30-Day Veg Pledge. You can find tips on going
vegetarian and recipes for meatless meals like faux fried chicken at
GoVeg.com.

Very truly yours,

Ingrid E. Newkirk
President and Founder

So, my first thought was...

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN CNN AND MSNBC:

CNN: Immigration reform faces big test in senate today (following a very serious story about Iraq)

MSNBC: Heiress released after 23-day stint in the Slammer

But then CNN cut to the Paris stor, and I realized that it's not an MSNBC problem, it's an America problem.

I'm sorry, what?

Filipino thief asks for "time out" in police chase
Tue Jun 26, 2007 4:53AM BST

MANILA (Reuters) - Philippine police chased down an unfit thief on Tuesday after he ran out of breath and asked his pursuers for a "time out".

"He was panting and gasping for air when we caught up with him after a 500 metre sprint," Erwin Buenceso, one of the arresting officers, told local radio station dzBB.

Buenceso said the man and an accomplice broke into a house in the Philippine capital and stole two expensive mobile phones. Screams from the residence alerted a local police patrol, which gave chase.

The robber asked for a "time out" using hand signals.

After he regained his composure, police seized the two stolen phones and brought him to a station for questioning.

Monday, June 25, 2007

Thank you CAR TALK, for the amusement. I love you guys!

Pope's 10 Commandments of the Road

From: Linda Shepard Salzer


Got a road commandment of your own you'd like to suggest? Share it here.

Here are a few we would have included:

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's Lexus.

Thou shalt never combine convertibles and combovers.

Thou shalt not take thy rental car to Mexico.

Thy horsepower shalt not exceed thy I.Q.

Honor thy service intervals.

Thou shalt not ride thy clutch.

If thou are going to pick thine nose, for Christ's sake, make sure no one's looking.

Honor thy mechanic's boat payment due date, and keep it holy.

Thou shalt not lie, cheat, steal, or attempt to sell undercoating.

Thou shalt not return thy brother's car on empty.

Feed thy meter, except on the Sabbath, lest thee suffer the eternal boot.

Thou shall handle lit cigars with care, lest thee find refuge near your loins.

Thou shalt not combine dialing and driving, lest thou mortal coil be wrapped around an unholy bridge abutment.

Thy middle finger shall only be used in conjunction with thy index finger, to indicate "peace."

Blessed are the Prii, for they shall inherit the earth.

Thou shall keepeth thy 17-year-old son bound to the slowest and ugliest 1979 Volvo which hath presenteth itself on the list of craig.

Thou shalt not drive like my brother.

really? This is really happening?



IM IN UR ING UR

Comes with a washable marker so you can write and reuse!

Although the "im in ur" meme started off with virtual death and destruction (I'm in your base killing your d00dz), it was quickly overtaken by the legions of cute, fluffy, and irresistible. (And by that we mean cats.) Reclaim the phrase for the humans by captioning yourself. This shirt is full of write-on, wash-off goodness. Tell everyone you're in their noun verbing their noun! Bored with what you wrote this morning? Throw the shirt in the wash and think up a new saying. It's like Mad Libs meets Photoshop in a head-to-head deathmatch on your chest.

Imagine the possibilities! Visiting in-laws? We recommend, "im in ur offspring sproutin' ur family tree." Stuck at the office? May we suggest, "im in ur meeting eatin' ur donuts." Out for some wardriving? How about "im in ur unsecured network downloadin' ur pr0n." Techs could proudly wear their own "im in ur computer upgradin' ur RAM" shirts. Or for a more recursive bent, how about "im in ur lolbots crashin' ur server"?

Better yet, don't imagine. Experience it for yourself with our unique black 100% cotton t-shirt which comes pre-packaged with its own write-on, wash-off marker. Black shirt with white lowercase text and fill-in-the-blank style boxes for ur fillin-in-the-blank pleasure.

Note: The monkeys in ThinkGeek's extensive Product Testing Laboratories (the monkeys are the testers not the testees) discovered that the marker will wash off in hot or cold water and even comes off with a wet paper towel for those mid-day changes of mind. This is NOT write on / wipe off, because we didn't want you to have smudgy writing because you bent over 15 minutes after you'd donned the shirt. However, some of the washable ink will come off if you rub against it, so don't be wearing it on your recreated set of THX 1138.

wtf, mate?

So, I literally just woke up from a dream in which Dick Cheney hired a gay prostitue to dress up as a polar bear and ass pound him.

...what does this mean?

And more importantly, WHY WHY WHY?

Saturday, June 23, 2007

Now I know that LA is known for it's drunk drivers, but REALLY? really?

Man Arrested For DUI After Hitting 24 Cars

(AP) LONG BEACH, Calif. A motorist has been charged with drunken driving and hit-and-run after police say he struck about two dozen cars and two people during a wild ride.

David Wecksler of Long Beach was charged with two misdemeanors Friday.

Authorities say he was tipsy when his car drove through a Belmont Heights area in February, sideswiping rows of parked cars for blocks and bumping two people, who luckily received only minor scrapes.

A police report says Wecksler admitted he'd been drinking at a poker party with friends but he claimed a blown tire caused him to lose control of his GMC Sierra truck.

When officers asked why he didn't stop after the first accident, Wecksler allegedly replied, "I was trying to find a place to park."

the work gods are watching over me

NEMO IS ON! NEMO IS ON!
OH OH OH OH OH I FOUND HIM!
WEE!

BOBBY CUTTS!! More like boobie cutz.

Yo, Bobby Cutts killed that pregnant bitch.
HELLA FUCKED UP.

"I just hope it's not Bobby Cutts, b/c he's the father of my grandchild. I hope it's someone we don't know."
Sorry, Grandma. Your loss.

Friday, June 22, 2007

jfk as golden god pt. 2

IF only our current leaders thought this way....or, well, really....thought at all...

"We're not going to plunge into an irresponsible action just because a fanatical fringe in this country puts so-called national pride above national reason. Do you think I'm going to carry on my conscience the responsibility for the wanton maiming and killing of children like our children we saw [playing] here this evening? Do you think I'm going to cause a nuclear exchange—for what? Because I was forced into doing something that I didn't think was proper and right? Well, if you or anybody else thinks I am, he's crazy."

Why Rachel Paiste loves John Kennedy

Kennedy was equally outraged at his national-security advisers. While he famously took responsibility for the Bay of Pigs debacle in public, privately he lashed out at the Joint Chiefs and especially at the cia, threatening to "shatter [the agency] into a thousand pieces and scatter it to the winds." J.F.K. never followed through on this threat, but he did eventually fire Dulles, despite his stature as a legendary spymaster, as well as Bissell.


from this article.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Missing: Large lake in southern Chile

Wed 20 Jun 2007, 18:53 GMT
SANTIAGO (Reuters) - A lake in southern Chile has mysteriously disappeared, prompting speculation the ground has simply opened up and swallowed it whole.
The lake was situated in the Magallanes region in Patagonia and was fed by water, mostly from melting glaciers.
It had a surface area of between 4 and 5 hectares (10-12 acres) -- about the size of 10 soccer pitches.
"In March we patrolled the area and everything was normal ... we went again in May and to our surprise we found the lake had completely disappeared," said Juan Jose Romero, regional director of Chile's National Forestry Corporation CONAF.
"The only things left were chunks of ice on the dry lake-bed and an enormous fissure," he told Reuters.
CONAF is investigating the disappearance.
One theory is that the area was hit by an earth tremor that opened a crack in the ground which acted like a drain.
Southern Chile has been shaken by thousands of minor earth tremors this year.

N.Z. Couple Can't Name Their Son '4real'

WELLINGTON, New Zealand (AP) -- New Zealand authorities have blocked a couple's bid to officially name their new son "4real," saying numerals are not allowed.

Pat and Sheena Wheaton said they decided to name their new baby "4real" shortly after having an ultrasound and being struck by the reality of his impending arrival.

"For most of us, when we try to figure out what our names mean, we have to look it up in a babies book and ... there's no direct link between the meaning and the name," Pat Wheaton told TV One on Wednesday. "With this name, everyone knows what it means."

But when the parents filed the name with New Zealand's Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages, they were told names beginning with a number were against the rules.

The government office has opened negotiations with the parents about the name under a policy that says all unusual names must be given case-by-case consideration.

"The name has not at this stage been rejected," Registrar-General Brian Clarke said in a statement Thursday. "We are currently in discussions with the parents ... to clarify the situation."

Clarke said the rules are designed to prevent names that are "likely to cause offense to a reasonable person." Satan and Adolf Hitler were proposed names that have been declined, he said.

If no compromise has been reached by July 9, the baby will be registered as "real," officials say.

New Zealand law requires all children born in the South Pacific nation to be registered with the Births, Deaths and Marriages registry within two months of birth.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

you make it too easy, little one..


..already in the case...all i need to do to steal you is just ZIP and GO!

Did you hear the news?

The greatest news?

BEERSICLES EXIST!!!!!

more on this in moments to come.
This breaking news is TRULY bettering my life.

:)

I love you I love you

Amy Winehouse says Dolly Parton’s look is “cool”.

The ‘Rehab’ singer, who says Dolly is one of her favorite style icons, is
impressed by the efforts Parton goes to in maintaining her glamorous image
for her husband.

Amy told Britain’s Style magazine: “I heard she wakes up every day four
hours before her husband to put on her face. Four hours! I think that’s
cool.”

Amy, who is known for her trademark messy beehive hairstyle and thick black
eyeliner, confessed she loves “looking after” her man.

She said: “I’ve always been a little homemaker.”

The 23-year-old, who wed Blake Fielder-Civil in a secret US ceremony last
month, confessed she and her husband write each other secret notes when they
are in public “all the time”.

Amy, who was separated from Blake for a year before they married, confessed
the heartbreak almost pushed her to the edge and inspired many of the tracks
on her ‘Back To Black’ album.

She said: “All the songs are about the state of my relationship at the time
with Blake. I thought we’d never see each other again. He laughs about it
now. He’s like, ‘What do you mean, you thought we’d never see each other
again? We love each other. We’ve always loved each other.’

“But I don’t think it’s funny. I wanted to die.”



holy shit omigod you're perfect, never change. The MOST PERFECT quote

"God does not want human beings living in the land of suck. He wants us to feel great and to be happy."


~ Ed Gungor, from There is More to the Secret

here's one to ponder...

An interesting article about the Niqab wearers in Egypt and the court battles they've just won......

Coincidentally, NIQAB is a q word with no U. REMEMBER THIS FOR SCRABBLE
...MUST REMEMBER....

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

dude lord god

David Beckham is a w00k.


And a fiercely hot one at that!


Ohmigodohmigodohmigod. It's love.

this is why my life is not hot.

Sadness.....I miss you, tent.


I really want to go camping......like...soon.
Too bad I have to work every day.

no second home for this girl.
No gunks with Lucas.
No....tent.
No beer.
No hike.

Monday, June 18, 2007

some day, pups, you will be mine....some day you will be mine.

Jay got this in his email.

I don't care how off-color it may be. It's fucking rad-tacular. AND hilarious. So....eat it.

Here's one for your liberal buddies.
Subject: POEM

Illegal Immigrants


I cross ocean,
poor and broke,

Take bus to
see employment folk.

Nice man
treat me good in there,
Say I need
go see Welfare.

Welfare say,
"You come no more,

We send cash
right to your door."

Welfare checks,
they make you wealthy,

Medicaid
it keep you healthy!

By and by,
Got plenty money,

Thanks to you,
TAXPAYER dummy.

Write to friends
in motherland,

Tell them
'come, fast as you can'

They come in turbans
and Ford trucks,

I buy big house
with welfare bucks.

They come here,
we live together,

More welfare checks,
it gets better!

Fourteen families,
they moving in,

But neighbor's patience
wearing thin.

Finally, white guy
moves away,
.
I buy his house,
and then I say,

"Find more aliens
for house to rent."

In my yard
I put a tent.

Send for family
they just trash,
...
But they, too,
draw welfare cash!

Everything is
very good,
Soon we own
whole neighborhood.

We have hobby
it called breeding,

Welfare pay
for baby feeding.

Kids need dentist?
Wife need pills?

We get free!
We got no bills!

TAXPAYER crazy!
He pay all year,
To keep welfare
running here.

We think America darn good place!
Too darn good for white man race.

If they no like us, they can scram.
Got lots of room in Pakistan.

Saturday, June 16, 2007

wow...serious word vomit.

I'm putting it out there.
and you can judge me however you want.
i love the bloodhound gang.
i do! I have all of their albums. If they wanted to marry me (collectively) I would let them make me laugh day and night.
I LOVE BHG.
Enjoy.

Friday, June 15, 2007

And the funniest thing about JDate is...

JEWISH people PAYING for hook ups.
ha.


Epic sox week. win Tues, lose yesterday, win today. Today I think was the best game...yesterday was just sad. Tues was fun and excellent becuase Haley's dad bought me beer. And nips. Man really knows how to win a girl's heart.
Tonight though, there was this little kid sitting behind Matt and he was the greatest.
Of course, we all boo the evil miscreant Barold Bonds. (Barry clearly stands for Barold. Take it.) And this dweeb child says "Daddy, why is everyone booing Barry Bonds?" After a clearly more than awkward pause (well honey, when a man and a woman love each other very much...) he responds "People are mad at him becuase he takes steroids. They make him big, and no one likes a cheater."

and what, you ask, does the little boy say next?

"STEROIDS ARE STUPID. HE SHOULD JUST PRACTICE MORE."
I could have married him. So priceless.

gay marriage ban...hoorah.

Why can't we all just love each other? The longer I work here, the more I realize how many bigoted people with only semi-educated opinions exist in this world .
Gay people have the right to be just as happy as everyone else. Let them have their marriages. Really...who cares? Maybe God did say that you were not supposed to lay next to man, but he also said not to eat animals with cloven feet, and not to mix mother and child, but that doesn't stop you from having a bacon cheeseburger, now does it?
thats what i thought...ass.
you can't pick and choose the parts of the bible that you chose to respect.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

I am very sad. VERY sad.

It's time to throw out my favorite pants.
the jeans i've had forever.
that i love.
and wear happily.
and they make my ass look faaaabbbuuuloouusss.
and even the holes have holes.

its over, you and me, its over.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Kelly Clarkson, though you may be crazy, you may also be on to something...

On never having been in love:
"I know people probably think I've been heartbroken, because of the stuff I've sung and written. I love my friends and family. But I have never said the words 'I love you' to anyone in a romantic relationship. Ever. I am very old-school, conservative in my thinking when it comes to relationships. Love is something you work at. It doesn't come easily. There are going to be bad days. You are going to have to work at loving someone when they are being an idiot. People think they're just going to meet the perfect guy. Don't be ridiculous."

Thursday, June 7, 2007

This piece is just so dead on (i before e except after c)

Lust For The Edge
by Jay Trachman

A Family Member called with a question: "Jay, I've been here so long, I'm getting bored and I'm not sure what to do about it. Is that normal?"

No, it's not normal; it's universal. If you're a creative person -- in whatever field -- you eventually reach a point where it starts becoming automatic. What should you do?

In my experience, it's usually not just your job that's in a rut, it's your life. Perhaps the sizzle has gone out of your marriage; you're earning far less than other people you respect; you come home at night and you watch TV until you fall asleep. You've stopped learning how to do new things at work because there's no one to teach you. You're living a dead-end life in a dead end relationship, with a dead-end job. Is that what's troubling you, Bunky?

Well, chin up! Every creative person I know has had these thoughts at one time or another. If you don't, then you probably don't belong in the entertainment biz. Creative people of all types thrive "on the edge," where we're facing real risks, where we get the feeling that our lives depend on our moment-to-moment decisions. We love flying by the seat of our pants.

Sometimes, we create that "edge" for ourselves, not always in the healthiest or most "sensible" way. I took flying lessons, as a surprising number of jocks do. Sometimes we do crazy things on the air, or sass the boss, knowing that we'll probably get fired, and we have no other job to go to. We toss aside relationships. We do alcohol and other drugs, we drive too fast.

We do so many stupid things, for reasons we later can't understand, except for a vague awareness that something "drove us" to it. That something, the common denominator behind all these things, is our lust for the edge.

My advice is to find a relatively "safe" edge, if that's not a contradiction. Make your life busier. Invest yourself in something: take a course, join an organization, start an exercise program or a new hobby or a new romance. That's not always practical; if you're married for ten years and you have three kids, I'd be the last one to suggest you walk out on them. (And yet... nothing makes me more creative than a new romance -- except possibly, the end of an old one.)

There are things you can do on the job, too. Learn sales or production -- make yourself an expert in a related field; it'll give you a whole new perspective on your work. Not to mention, making you more valuable to your present employer and any future one.

Years ago, when I felt that emptiness, like my life had become too mechanical, I invested myself in something related to my job: I bought my first computer and learned how to work it. It was the greatest challenge since my flying days -- and equally satisfying. It revolutionized the way I work and play, and even made me new friends all over the world. I joined the local computer user's group, and volunteered to host a monthly "special interest group" of novice users, at my home. By investing myself in something, I ended my doldrums and opened up a whole array of new horizons. Today, my wife and I get the same kind of thrill by hosting an exchange student – we’re back in the parenting biz!

What can you do, today, on the air? Skirt the boundaries. Try being outrageous once in awhile. Next time you come up with a concept for an incredible produced bit, follow through and do it. Push yourself. Try revealing aspects of your real personality that you never have before, to your listener. Don't get fired, but do try to figure out just how much creativity your boss will tolerate. (You may be surprised.)

A talk with the PD or GM may be called for. Let him or her know you're bored, and want to branch out. Ask for ideas and new responsibilities.

When all else fails -- if none of these "safe" ideas work for you, then maybe it really is time to look for a new job. Start saving airchecks, with a mind toward creating the best audition you possibly can. (That, in itself, ought to perk up your shows.) You're in an ideal position to find a new job: still employed.

Radio is more like a mistress than a job. We're in it for the passion. When the flame dies, you've either got to find a way to re-kindle it, or find a new mistress.

Jay Trachman is publisher of “One to One,” a weekly information and humor service for broadcasters. Jay can be reached at: phone (559) 448 0700, fax (559) 448 0761, e-mail at 121@att.net, or www.121online.net. Reprinted with permission.

Arf! Wait, what?

I rarely get a creepy mass email spam-y thing that I like, but man, this one is it.
How hot.
How fucking hot.
Hot like Paris Hilton, serving the rest of her sentence poolside, margarita in hand. Man, I wish I were famous.
Without further ado:

I have 2 dogs & I was buying a large bag of Pal at Big W and standing inline at the check out.

A woman behind me asked if I had a dog.

On impulse, I told her that no, I was starting The Pal Diet again although I probably shouldn't because I'd ended up in the hospital last time, but that I'd lost 50 pounds before I awakened in an intensive care ward with tubes coming out of most of my orifices and IV's in both arms.

I told her that it was essentially a perfect diet and that the way that it works is to load your pants pockets with Pal nuggets and simply eat one or two every time you feel hungry & that the food is nutritionally complete so I was going to try it again.

I have to mention here that practically everyone in the line was by now enthralled with my story, particularly a guy who was behind her.

Horrified, she asked if I'd ended up in the hospital in that condition because I had been poisoned. I told her no; it was because I'd been sitting in the street licking my balls and a car hit me.

I thought one guy was going to have a heart attack he was laughing so hard as he staggered out the door.

Stupid b*tch...why else would I buy dog food??


hehehe!!!

one of the most well written pieces i've read in a long, long time.

From the LA Times. Just...fascinating.

In Saudi Arabia, a view from behind the veil

As a woman in the male-dominated kingdom, Times reporter Megan Stack quietly fumed beneath her abaya. Even beyond its borders, her experience taints her perception of the sexes.
By Megan K. Stack, Times Staff Writer
June 6, 2007

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia — THE hem of my heavy Islamic cloak trailed over floors that glistened like ice. I walked faster, my eyes fixed on a familiar, green icon. I hadn't seen a Starbucks in months, but there it was, tucked into a corner of a fancy shopping mall in the Saudi capital. After all those bitter little cups of sludgy Arabic coffee, here at last was an improbable snippet of home — caffeinated, comforting, American.

I wandered into the shop, filling my lungs with the rich wafts of coffee. The man behind the counter gave me a bemused look; his eyes flickered. I asked for a latte. He shrugged, the milk steamer whined, and he handed over the brimming paper cup. I turned my back on his uneasy face.

Crossing the cafe, I felt the hard stares of Saudi men. A few of them stopped talking as I walked by and watched me pass. Them, too, I ignored. Finally, coffee in hand, I sank into the sumptuous lap of an overstuffed armchair.

"Excuse me," hissed the voice in my ear. "You can't sit here." The man from the counter had appeared at my elbow. He was glaring.

"Excuse me?" I blinked a few times.

"Emmm," he drew his discomfort into a long syllable, his brows knitted. "You cannot stay here."

"What? Uh … why?"

Then he said it: "Men only."

He didn't tell me what I would learn later: Starbucks had another, unmarked door around back that led to a smaller espresso bar, and a handful of tables smothered by curtains. That was the "family" section. As a woman, that's where I belonged. I had no right to mix with male customers or sit in plain view of passing shoppers. Like the segregated South of a bygone United States, today's Saudi Arabia shunts half the population into separate, inferior and usually invisible spaces.

At that moment, there was only one thing to do. I stood up. From the depths of armchairs, men in their white robes and red-checked kaffiyehs stared impassively over their mugs. I felt blood rushing to my face. I dropped my eyes, and immediately wished I hadn't. Snatching up the skirts of my robe to keep from stumbling, I walked out of the store and into the clatter of the shopping mall.

--

THAT was nearly four years ago, a lesson learned on one of my first trips to the kingdom. Until that day, I thought I knew what I was doing: I'd heard about Saudi Arabia, that the sexes are wholly segregated. From museums to university campuses to restaurants, the genders live corralled existences. One young, hip, U.S.-educated Saudi friend told me that he arranges to meet his female friends in other Arab cities. It's easier to fly to Damascus or Dubai, he shrugged, than to chill out coeducationally at home.

I was ready to cope, or so I thought. I arrived with a protective smirk in tow, planning to thicken the walls around myself. I'd report a few stories, and go home. I had no inkling that Saudi Arabia, the experience of being a woman there, would stick to me, follow me home on the plane and shadow me through my days, tainting the way I perceived men and women everywhere.

I'm leaving the Middle East now, closing up years spent covering the fighting and fallout that have swept the region since Sept. 11. Of all the strange, scary and joyful experiences of the past years, my time covering Saudi Arabia remains among the most jarring.

I spent my days in Saudi Arabia struggling unhappily between a lifetime of being taught to respect foreign cultures and the realization that this culture judged me a lesser being. I tried to draw parallels: If I went to South Africa during apartheid, would I feel compelled to be polite?

I would find that I still saw scraps of Saudi Arabia everywhere I went. Back home in Cairo, the usual cacophony of whistles and lewd coos on the streets sent me into blind rage. I slammed doors in the faces of deliverymen; cursed at Egyptian soldiers in a language they didn't speak; kept a resentful mental tally of the Western men, especially fellow reporters, who seemed to condone, even relish, the relegation of women in the Arab world.

In the West, there's a tendency to treat Saudi Arabia as a remote land, utterly removed from our lives. But it's not very far from us, nor are we as different as we might like to think. Saudi Arabia is a center of ideas and commerce, an important ally to the United States, the heartland of a major world religion. It is a highly industrialized, ultramodern home to expatriates from all over the world, including Americans who live in lush gated compounds with swimming pools, drink illegal glasses of bathtub gin and speak glowingly of the glorious desert and the famous hospitality of Saudis.

The rules are different here. The same U.S. government that heightened public outrage against the Taliban by decrying the mistreatment of Afghan women prizes the oil-slicked Saudi friendship and even offers wan praise for Saudi elections in which women are banned from voting. All U.S. fast-food franchises operating here, not just Starbucks, make women stand in separate lines. U.S.-owned hotels don't let women check in without a letter from a company vouching for her ability to pay; women checking into hotels alone have long been regarded as prostitutes.

As I roamed in and out of Saudi Arabia, the abaya, or Islamic robe, eventually became the symbol of those shifting rules.

I always delayed until the last minute. When I felt the plane dip low over Riyadh, I'd reach furtively into my computer bag to fish out the black robe and scarf crumpled inside. I'd slip my arms into the sleeves without standing up. If I caught the eyes of any male passengers as my fingers fumbled with the snaps, I'd glare. Was I imagining the smug looks on their faces?

The sleeves, the length of it, always felt foreign, at first. But it never took long to work its alchemy, to plant the insecurity. After a day or two, the notion of appearing without the robe felt shocking. Stripped of the layers of curve-smothering cloth, my ordinary clothes suddenly felt revealing, even garish. To me, the abaya implied that a woman's body is a distraction and an interruption, a thing that must be hidden from view lest it haul the society into vice and disarray. The simple act of wearing the robe implanted that self-consciousness by osmosis.

In the depths of the robe, my posture suffered. I'd draw myself in and bumble along like those adolescent girls who seem to think they can roll their breasts back into their bodies if they curve their spines far enough. That was why, it hit me one day, I always seemed to come back from Saudi Arabia with a backache.

The kingdom made me slouch.

--

SAUDI men often raised the question of women with me; they seemed to hope that I would tell them, either out of courtesy or conviction, that I endorsed their way of life. Some blamed all manner of Western ills, from gun violence to alcoholism, on women's liberation. "Do you think you could ever live here?" many of them asked. It sounded absurd every time, and every time I would repeat the obvious: No.

Early in 2005, I covered the kingdom's much-touted municipal elections, which excluded women not only from running for office, but also from voting. True to their tribal roots, candidates pitched tents in vacant lots and played host to voters for long nights of coffee, bull sessions and poetry recitations. I accepted an invitation to visit one of the tents, but the sight of a woman in their midst so badly ruffled the would-be voters that the campaign manager hustled over and asked me, with lavish apologies, to make myself scarce before I cost his man the election.

A few days later, a female U.S. official, visiting from Washington, gave a press appearance in a hotel lobby in Riyadh. Sporting pearls, a business suit and a bare, blond head, she praised the Saudi elections.

The election "is a departure from their culture and their history," she said. "It offers to the citizens of Saudi Arabia hope…. It's modest, but it's dramatic."

The American ambassador, a bespectacled Texan named James C. Oberwetter, also praised the voting from his nearby seat.

"When I got here a year ago, there were no political tents," he said. "It's like a backyard political barbecue in the U.S."

One afternoon, a candidate invited me to meet his daughter. She spoke fluent English and was not much younger than me. I cannot remember whether she was wearing hijab, the Islamic head scarf, inside her home, but I have a memory of pink. I asked her about the elections.

"Very good," she said.

So you really think so, I said gently, even though you can't vote?

"Of course," she said. "Why do I need to vote?"

Her father chimed in. He urged her, speaking English for my benefit, to speak candidly. But she insisted: What good was voting? She looked at me as if she felt sorry for me, a woman cast adrift on the rough seas of the world, no male protector in sight.

"Maybe you don't want to vote," I said. "But wouldn't you like to make that choice yourself?"

"I don't need to," she said calmly, blinking slowly and deliberately. "If I have a father or a husband, why do I need to vote? Why should I need to work? They will take care of everything."

Through the years I have met many Saudi women. Some are rebels; some are proudly defensive of Saudi ways, convinced that any discussion of women's rights is a disguised attack on Islam from a hostile Westerner. There was the young dental student who came home from the university and sat up half the night, writing a groundbreaking novel exploring the internal lives and romances of young Saudi women. The oil expert who scolded me for asking about female drivers, pointing out the pitfalls of divorce and custody laws and snapping: "Driving is the least of our problems." I have met women who work as doctors and business consultants. Many of them seem content.

Whatever their thoughts on the matter, they have been assigned a central, symbolic role in what seems to be one of the greatest existential questions in contemporary Saudi Arabia: Can the country opt to develop in some ways and stay frozen in others? Can the kingdom evolve economically and technologically in a global society without relinquishing its particular culture of extreme religious piety and ancient tribal code?

The men are stuck, too. Over coffee one afternoon, an economist told me wistfully of the days when he and his wife had studied overseas, how she'd hopped behind the wheel and did her own thing. She's an independent, outspoken woman, he said. Coming back home to Riyadh had depressed both of them.

"Here, I got another dependent: my wife," he said. He found himself driving her around, chaperoning her as if she were a child. "When they see a woman walking alone here, it's like a wolf watching a sheep. 'Let me take what's unattended.' " He told me that both he and his wife hoped, desperately, that social and political reform would finally dawn in the kingdom. He thought foreign academics were too easy on Saudi Arabia, that they urged only minor changes instead of all-out democracy because they secretly regarded Saudis as "savages" incapable of handling too much freedom.

"I call them propaganda papers," he said of the foreign analysis. "They come up with all these lame excuses." He and his wife had already lost hope for themselves, he said.

"For ourselves, the train has left the station. We are trapped," he said. "I think about my kids. At least when I look at myself in the mirror I'll say: 'At least I said this. At least I wrote this.' "

--

WHEN Saudi officials chat with an American reporter, they go to great lengths to depict a moderate, misunderstood kingdom. They complain about stereotypes in the Western press: Women banned from driving? Well, they don't want to drive anyway. They all have drivers, and why would a lady want to mess with parking?

The religious police who stalk the streets and shopping centers, forcing "Islamic values" onto the populace? Oh, Saudi officials say, they really aren't important, or strict, or powerful. You hear stories to the contrary? Mere exaggerations, perpetuated by people who don't understand Saudi Arabia.

I had an interview one afternoon with a relatively high-ranking Saudi official. Since I can't drive anywhere or meet a man in a cafe, I usually end up inviting sources for coffee in the lobby of my hotel, where the staff turns a blind eye to whether those in the "family section" are really family.

As the elevator touched down and the shiny doors swung open onto the lobby, the official rushed toward me.

"Do you think we could talk in your room?" he blurted out.

I stepped back. What was this, some crazy come-on?

"No, why?" I stammered, stepping wide around him. "We can sit right over here." I wanted to get to the coffee shop — no dice. He swung himself around, blocking my path and my view.

"It's not a good idea," he said. "Let's just go to your room."

"I really don't think … I mean," I said, stuttering in embarrassment.

Then, peering over his shoulder, I saw them: two beefy men in robes. Great bushes of beards sprang from their chins, they swung canes in their hands and scanned the hotel lobby through squinted eyes.

"Is that the religious police?" I said. "It is!" I was a little mesmerized. I'd always wanted to see them in action.

The ministry official seemed to shrink a little, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"They're not supposed to be here," he muttered despondently. "What are they doing here?"

"Well, why don't we go to the mall next door?" I said, eyes fixed on the menacing men. "There's a coffee shop there, we could try that."

"No, they will go there next." While he wrung his hands nervously, I stepped back a little and considered the irony of our predicament. To avoid running afoul of what may be the world's most stringent public moral code, I was being asked to entertain a strange, older man in my hotel room, something I would never agree to back home.

I had to do something. He was about to walk away and cancel the meeting, and I couldn't afford to lose it. Then I remembered a couple of armchairs near the elevator, up on my floor. We rode up and ordered room-service coffee. We talked as the elevators chimed up and down the spine of the skyscraper and the roar of vacuum cleaners echoed in the hallway.

--

ONE glaring spring day, when the hot winds raced in off the plains and the sun blotted everything to white, I stood outside a Riyadh bank, sweating in my black cloak while I waited for a friend. The sidewalk was simmering, but I had nowhere else to go. As a woman, I was forbidden to enter the men's half of the bank to fetch him. Traffic screamed past on a nearby highway. The winds tugged at the layers of black polyester. My sunglasses began to slip down my glistening nose.

The door clattered open, and I looked up hopefully. But no, it was a security guard. And he was stomping straight at me, yelling in Arabic. I knew enough vocabulary to glean his message: He didn't want me standing there. I took off my shades, fixed my blue eyes on him blankly and finally turned away as if puzzled. I think of this as playing possum.

He disappeared again, only to reemerge with another security guard. This man was of indistinct South Asian origin and had an English vocabulary. He looked like a pit bull — short, stocky and teeth flashing as he barked: "Go! Go! You can't stand here! The men can SEE! The men can SEE!"

I looked down at him and sighed. I was tired. "Where do you want me to go? I have to wait for my friend. He's inside." But he was still snarling and flashing those teeth, arms akimbo. He wasn't interested in discussions.

"Not here. NOT HERE! The men can SEE you!" He flailed one arm toward the bank.

I lost my temper.

"I'm just standing here!" I snapped. "Leave me alone!" This was a slip. I had already learned that if you're a woman in a sexist country, yelling at a man only makes a crisis worse.

The pit bull advanced toward me, making little shooing motions with his hands, lips curled back. Involuntarily, I stepped back a few paces and found myself in the shrubbery. I guess that, from the bushes, I was hidden from the view of the window, thereby protecting the virtue of all those innocent male bankers. At any rate, it satisfied the pit bull, who climbed back onto the sidewalk and stood guard over me. I glared at him. He showed his teeth. The minutes passed. Finally, my friend reemerged.

A liberal, U.S.-educated professor at King Saud University, he was sure to share my outrage, I thought. Maybe he'd even call up the bank — his friend was the manager — and get the pit bull in trouble. I told him my story, words hot as the pavement.

He hardly blinked. "Yes," he said. "Oh." He put the car in reverse, and off we drove.

--

DRIVING to the airport, I felt the kingdom slipping off behind me, the flat emptiness of its deserts, the buildings that rear toward the sky, encased in mirrored glass, blank under a blaring sun. All the hints of a private life I have never seen. Saudis are bred from the desert; they find life in what looks empty to me.

Even if I were Saudi, would I understand it? I remember the government spokesman, Mansour Turki, who said to me: "Being a Saudi doesn't mean you see every face of Saudi society. Saudi men don't understand how Saudi women think. They have no idea, actually. Even my own family, my own mother or sister, she won't talk to me honestly."

I slipped my iPod headphones into my ears. I wanted to hear something thumping and American. It began the way it always does: an itch, an impatience, like a wrinkle in the sock, something that is felt, but not yet registered. The discomfort always starts when I leave.

By the time I boarded the plane, I was in a temper. I yanked at the clasps, shrugged off the abaya like a rejected embrace. I crumpled it up and tossed it childishly into the airplane seat.

Then I was just standing there, feeling stripped in my jeans and blouse. My limbs felt light, and modesty flashed through me. I was aware of the skin of my wrists and forearms, the triangle of naked neck. I scanned the eyes behind me, looking for a challenge. But none came. The Saudi passengers had watched my tantrum impassively.

I sat down, leaned back and breathed. This moment, it seems, is always the same. I take the abaya off, expecting to feel liberated. But somehow, it always feels like defeat.

--


megan.stack@latimes.com

Stack reported in Saudi Arabia repeatedly during her tenure as The Times' Cairo Bureau chief from September 2003 until last month.

Google, always going the extra step to make me uncomfortable...is back at it.

Have you noticed? We've become a people that no longer respects, or apparently desires, privacy. Our own or anybody else's.

That's a remarkable thing, when you stop to think about it. We Americans, historically, have fiercely guarded our personal privacy. It's one of our defining characteristics. Others, who live in societies where personal privacy isn't so easily taken for granted, have looked on with a mixture of admiration and bemusement. "Mind your own business" is a singularly American expression.

But now we've allowed that birthright to be compromised, in a hundred little ways, and in a few conspicuously big ones, by an increasingly meddlesome government -- not to mention opportunistic, predatory marketers -- armed with the technology that gives them an easy entrée into our most secret places. Why is that, do you suppose? Have we surrendered to Big Brother because "you can't fight city hall," or have we been lied to, cajoled and softened up for so long by so much stupid television and the endless drumbeat of consumerism that we no longer care?

Do you think you're surfing porn at home in complete anonymity? Do you think the government can't retrieve every single scrap of personal information you own? Do you think The Gap doesn't know that you've moved up to a 34 waist? We've been scanned, cookied and catalogued so thoroughly that there are agencies and companies out there who know more about us than we know about ourselves.

Now, thanks to Google, you can't even expect your privacy to be respected in one of the most paradoxically private places around -- the public street.

People who don't live in big cities often cite the lack of privacy as one reason why they wouldn't. Actually, the anonymity of living in a community of hundreds of thousands of people affords a lot more privacy than one might expect; certainly more than in of those cute little towns where everybody knows everybody else's business.

Or at least it did, until Google came along with Street View.

Now the mere act of walking down a public street is liable to get you some unwanted publicity, especially if you're captured doing something you'd rather not share with the world.

Google says Street View is intended to provide street-level tours of selected cities (currently San Francisco, New York, Denver, Miami and Vegas are so blessed; others are in the works). Why they feel such tours are necessary at all is another question. "Because it's way cool" will probably suffice.

In an Associated Press story, Google spokeswoman Megan Quinn shrugs off any privacy concerns, saying: "This imagery is no different from what any person can readily capture or see walking down the street." I don't know how often Ms. Quinn walks the mean streets of her town, but it's not comparable at all. For one thing, the casual pedestrian isn't staring at a computer screen with your image plastered all over it. And being spotted on the street by a single person, someone as anonymous as you are, is a far cry from being available to the prurient curiosity of millions of online peeping toms.

This is just incredibly vulgar.

But just to be safe, Google makes it clear that it's on firm legal footing; that you have no legal guarantee to privacy on a public street. So if you turn up on Street View as you're ducking into the local porn emporium, that's your tough luck. Maybe it is legal. Probably it is. So what? Being legal doesn't mean being right.

Let's call a spade a spade here, lay all our cards on the table and use all the clichés necessary to make one thing perfectly clear: Google is invading your privacy for the same reason (and only reason) it does anything. It smells a chance to make money and it's going to make money, and to hell with you and your privacy. Do no evil? Balls.

Greed, unfortunately, is another American characteristic. One that will eventually destroy us.

Wednesday, June 6, 2007

stupid fucking hippie.


anti G8 protestor W00ks it up.
no words, all you need is the image.
shine out, flower child, shine on.

beautiful.

Man tries to jump into popemobile
Updated 40m ago | Comments 22 | Recommend 23 E-mail | Save | Print | Subscribe to stories like this

VATICAN CITY (AP) — A German man tried to jump into Pope Benedict XVI's uncovered popemobile as the pontiff began his general audience Wednesday and held onto it for a few seconds before being wrestled to the ground by security officers.

The pope was not hurt and didn't even appear to notice that the man — who was between 20 or 30 years old — had jumped over the protective barrier in the square and had grabbed onto the white popemobile as it drove by. The pontiff kept waving to the crowd and didn't even look back.

At least eight security officers who were trailing the vehicle as it moved slowly through the square grabbed the man and wrestled him to the ground.

The man was a 27-year-old German who showed signs of "mental imbalance," said the Rev. Federico Lombardi, the Vatican spokesman.

"His aim was not an attempt on the pope's life but to attract attention to himself," Lombardi told The Associated Press.

Monday, June 4, 2007

yuck.

I ate a whole pepperoni calzone.
Yuck.
and yet...so good.

Greece is going to be great: I see...Athens, Mykonos, Santorini?

YESSS

ATHENS HERE I COME
BOUGHT MY TICKET TODAY

BAKLAVA, ANYONE?


7.13.07 - 7.23.07

ugh.

Kevin McLaughlin. Dickingmeover.com
why can't people just be uber receptive?

Yesterday was nuts. A spin room is crazy..a desolate wasteland until that moment, where the herds swoop in, the eagles fly down, and all hell descends on the masses of people trying to get what they want.
WOW.
How exhilarating. Frightening, intimidating, sweat-filled, and AWESOME.

Can't wait to do it again Tuesday.

Romney=yes
Giuliani = prob
McCain = No
the second tier:
T. Thompson = yes
Tancredo = yes
hunter = prob.
don't know who else yet.

But fun, I am sure, will ensue.

:)