At work we receive large metal pieces that come with a board propped inside them to keep them square during shipping. These boards are seemingly unremarkable, though many are made of fine hardwoods, as they seem to be scraps from production of other parts made by the same company. Written across each board in permanent marker, though, is the word 'remove.' This of course was written in the imperative. It is an order to anyone that reads it telling that person that this board needs to be removed from its current situation.
This is all well and good when its purpose within the shipped metal piece is served. However, from the day that fateful instruction was scrawled across the face of that board until the end of time, that poor object will never find its place. Everywhere it finds itself it will simply sit there, telling anyone, anything, or any force available to nature that it must be removed. Certainly, one could attempt to end this once and for all by completely destroying the board, but to do so, one must put it in a place where this can happen. The result of this simple fact should be obvious. If one throws it in a fire, it will instantly command that it be removed from that fire. If one tries to blast it into deep space, it will continue to demand its own removal.
There, quite simply, is no way out of this quandary. The moment those workers wrote on that board they robbed it of having any place in this, or any, universe. Consequently, they robbed it of having any purpose (other than the trivial purpose of being removed) and they robbed it of any real existence. It is no longer a real thing, it is simply a signifier of its own need of removal.
I have taken one of these boards, and I shall spend my life constantly removing it. I will remove it from physical places. I will remove it from purposes. I will remove it from social situations. I will remove it in every way I can and from every place I can, for it is my quest now, not only to fulfill the purpose of that board, empty as it may be, but remind all of us of our tenuous place in this world. For, we ourselves are but one ill-chosen tattoo from this very limbo; we are but one word from losing all meaningful existence or purpose.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Pre or Post Impact?
I believe it is pre-impact, for a number of reasons. First, this man is clearly in the "bracing for impact" position, and not the "I am in unbearable pain" position. Second, his hands are clenched in what appears to be prayer. Third, his eyes are closed, his neck is tensed, and he is obviously holding his breath. If he had just caught one in the jujus, his eyes and mouth would almost certainly be open, and his face would be contorted in a howl of pain. And, finally, look at the crowd around him. Everyone is still 'bracing.' If this man was doubled over in pain, there would be at least one guy with that sympathetic look of "ouch man... that HAS to hurt," on his face. But no. These people are all still in fear of getting hit themselves. Especially that one dude in the black shirt.
Addendum to Inappropriate Commercial Songs
A while back, Nissan, I believe, used "Crazy Train" by the Oz to advertise its car. However, the ad featured a car crossing a bridge, a time when one most specifically does not want to be "going off the rails." Frankly, I don't think you want Ozzy Osbourne associated with driving in any way. We are talking about a guy who snorted a line of ants. Not to mention the time he bit off the head of a bird in a record executive meeting. Frankly, I am surprised the guy can operate a guitar, much less a motor vehicle.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Five Phases
There are five phases of emotion that one goes through in dealing with tragedy. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.
I have finals on wednesday. Currently, I am deeply into stage three, bargaining.
For instance, last night, in what was a totally warranted display of testosterone, I assaulted my roommate with a bokken. He had it coming. Unfortunately, he got it all on film. Unfortunately, I also managed to destroy a ceiling light fixture.
The bargain, however, is as follows. Clearly, objects mounted to the ceiling sometimes precipitate at great velocity. My aim is to claim that said light fixture fell of its own accord. However, the damage inflicted to it by yours truly is not really in accord with such an event. So, in order to convince landlordlady that the object in question did, in fact, fall, and nearly kill us, I have to smash it into further pieces.
So, essentially, while everyone else I know is studying at the library, I am methodically pulverizing a glass ceiling fixture in the hopes it will save me about twenty dollars. I bet you have never heard such a good explanation for otherwise inexplicable behavior.
I have finals on wednesday. Currently, I am deeply into stage three, bargaining.
For instance, last night, in what was a totally warranted display of testosterone, I assaulted my roommate with a bokken. He had it coming. Unfortunately, he got it all on film. Unfortunately, I also managed to destroy a ceiling light fixture.
The bargain, however, is as follows. Clearly, objects mounted to the ceiling sometimes precipitate at great velocity. My aim is to claim that said light fixture fell of its own accord. However, the damage inflicted to it by yours truly is not really in accord with such an event. So, in order to convince landlordlady that the object in question did, in fact, fall, and nearly kill us, I have to smash it into further pieces.
So, essentially, while everyone else I know is studying at the library, I am methodically pulverizing a glass ceiling fixture in the hopes it will save me about twenty dollars. I bet you have never heard such a good explanation for otherwise inexplicable behavior.
Frequency
A good way to analyze someone's meaning, instead of trying to parse the truth value of their particular statements, is to count the words they use.
Based on this analysis, I have to come to grips with the fact that I, apparently, am insane. No less than a dozen times a week am I called "crazy," "insane," "nuts," or, occasionally, "batshit wack."
I do not know if this is conclusive, but certainly persuasive.
Based on this analysis, I have to come to grips with the fact that I, apparently, am insane. No less than a dozen times a week am I called "crazy," "insane," "nuts," or, occasionally, "batshit wack."
I do not know if this is conclusive, but certainly persuasive.
Odiferousness
1:15 PM
Roommate: Jesus, what is that smell? Fuck, is that your room? Do us a favor. Open a window. Just... shut it down man.
1:30 PM
Roommate's girlfriend: Is there rotting garbage in here? What is that smell? ... RG is that your room? Oh god open a window! There is no way you are getting any girls in there!
Roommate: Jesus, what is that smell? Fuck, is that your room? Do us a favor. Open a window. Just... shut it down man.
1:30 PM
Roommate's girlfriend: Is there rotting garbage in here? What is that smell? ... RG is that your room? Oh god open a window! There is no way you are getting any girls in there!
Strategic Lyrical Exculsions in Commercials
The phenomenon of TV commercials using songs that are, at best, irrelevant to the product advertised is well known and documented. However, I have noticed a recent strategy where commercials use songs that actually stand in direct contradiction to the intended message of the ad - but made to look relevant by the strategic inclusion and exclusion of lyrics. Two such commercials com immediately to mind: One using The Who to pitch an SUV, and the other uses a Rolling Stones song to advertise Amstel (I think). Anyway, it is not the products that are important, it is the music.
Let us start with The Who. This commercial features an SUV racing around a scenic landscape, near some cliffs, while a sale is announced with some thundering Who-riffs in the background. During breaks taken by the announcer, Roger Daultry yells "I call that a bargain! The best I ever had!"
Now, this song seems a little too obvious for a commercial. One can almost picture The Who sitting around a table in early 1971, agreeing: "this song will make us so much money when we sell it for commercials. We will have to be willing to wait perhaps 30 or more years, but it will pay off." That is, until you listen to the rest of the song.
The following are the listed terms of the 'bargain' that The Who originally described:
1.) lose me (i.e. lose myself)
2.) give up all I had
3.) suffer anything
4.) pay any price
5.) work all my life
6.) stand naked, stoned and stabbed
7.) run and never stop
8.) Surrender my good life for bad
9.) drown an unsung man
Now, for true love, this might indeed be a bargain. But for an SUV it is far from it. It would be a terrible and horrifying place where a dealership would be allowed, on any level, to collect on these debts in exchange for a 2005 Nissan Pathfinder.
I get the impression that the advertising executive that came up with this idea only had a passing knowledge of classic rock from a local radio station. Probably the kind of guy who went to see The Who reunion show and responded "Who is Keith Moon?" when the people next to him lamented the loss of the charismatic drummer.
The next commercial features a bunch of friends enjoying Amstels around a fire as one of them sings and plays "Let It Bleed" on his acoustic guitar. "Life tastefully," the ad announces at the end. First of all, let us comment on the absurdity of association the Stones with any kind tasteful, or even respectable, lifestyle. They practically invented rock-star excess: drugs, booze, sex with dirty women and the consequent bacterial/viral consequences, destroying property. The Stones did it as well as anyone (with the possible exception of Led Zeppelin). More specifically, though, this song is entirely inappropriate for the intended message.
Everyone smiles and sways as the somewhat scruffy, nonthreateningly attractive mid-twenties performer sings:
"Well we all need someone to lean on
And if you want it, well you can lean on me"
What a great sentiment! I think we all sang that in 3rd grade music class along with "This land is my land" and "You can get it if you really want."
Or not. In fact, the song goes on to some less savory images. Among my favorites:
"You knifed me in my dirty filthy basement
With that jaded faded junky nurse" (note: most likely a heroin reference)
"We all need someone we can feed on
And if you want it, well you can feed on me
Take my arm, take my leg
Oh, baby, dont you take my head" (note: I don't really know what this means on a metaphorical level, but, even if we take 'head' in a nonsexual sense, it presents an explicit image of cannibalism)
"We all need someone we can bleed on
And if you want it, baby, well you can bleed on me" (note; I don't know if this follows the earlier images of stabbing and eating, or if it is a reference to menstruation. Either way: Eww.)
And of course, my real favorite:
"Yeah, we all need someone we can cream on
And if you want to, well you can cream on me"
So, ya, not so tasteful. In fact, pretty tasteless and reprehensible.
I ripped the decision making behind the first commercial, but I have to say, this one might, just might, be a stroke of genius. There is a good chance that it is intended as a tongue-in-cheek, winking to the audience sort of inside joke. If so, it is brilliant.
If not, it is just another case of the bureaucratic ignorance of a corporation: "Well, middle aged folks love the Rolling Stones, therefore they are inoffensive and recognizable and should be used in our commercial."
Let us start with The Who. This commercial features an SUV racing around a scenic landscape, near some cliffs, while a sale is announced with some thundering Who-riffs in the background. During breaks taken by the announcer, Roger Daultry yells "I call that a bargain! The best I ever had!"
Now, this song seems a little too obvious for a commercial. One can almost picture The Who sitting around a table in early 1971, agreeing: "this song will make us so much money when we sell it for commercials. We will have to be willing to wait perhaps 30 or more years, but it will pay off." That is, until you listen to the rest of the song.
The following are the listed terms of the 'bargain' that The Who originally described:
1.) lose me (i.e. lose myself)
2.) give up all I had
3.) suffer anything
4.) pay any price
5.) work all my life
6.) stand naked, stoned and stabbed
7.) run and never stop
8.) Surrender my good life for bad
9.) drown an unsung man
Now, for true love, this might indeed be a bargain. But for an SUV it is far from it. It would be a terrible and horrifying place where a dealership would be allowed, on any level, to collect on these debts in exchange for a 2005 Nissan Pathfinder.
I get the impression that the advertising executive that came up with this idea only had a passing knowledge of classic rock from a local radio station. Probably the kind of guy who went to see The Who reunion show and responded "Who is Keith Moon?" when the people next to him lamented the loss of the charismatic drummer.
The next commercial features a bunch of friends enjoying Amstels around a fire as one of them sings and plays "Let It Bleed" on his acoustic guitar. "Life tastefully," the ad announces at the end. First of all, let us comment on the absurdity of association the Stones with any kind tasteful, or even respectable, lifestyle. They practically invented rock-star excess: drugs, booze, sex with dirty women and the consequent bacterial/viral consequences, destroying property. The Stones did it as well as anyone (with the possible exception of Led Zeppelin). More specifically, though, this song is entirely inappropriate for the intended message.
Everyone smiles and sways as the somewhat scruffy, nonthreateningly attractive mid-twenties performer sings:
"Well we all need someone to lean on
And if you want it, well you can lean on me"
What a great sentiment! I think we all sang that in 3rd grade music class along with "This land is my land" and "You can get it if you really want."
Or not. In fact, the song goes on to some less savory images. Among my favorites:
"You knifed me in my dirty filthy basement
With that jaded faded junky nurse" (note: most likely a heroin reference)
"We all need someone we can feed on
And if you want it, well you can feed on me
Take my arm, take my leg
Oh, baby, dont you take my head" (note: I don't really know what this means on a metaphorical level, but, even if we take 'head' in a nonsexual sense, it presents an explicit image of cannibalism)
"We all need someone we can bleed on
And if you want it, baby, well you can bleed on me" (note; I don't know if this follows the earlier images of stabbing and eating, or if it is a reference to menstruation. Either way: Eww.)
And of course, my real favorite:
"Yeah, we all need someone we can cream on
And if you want to, well you can cream on me"
So, ya, not so tasteful. In fact, pretty tasteless and reprehensible.
I ripped the decision making behind the first commercial, but I have to say, this one might, just might, be a stroke of genius. There is a good chance that it is intended as a tongue-in-cheek, winking to the audience sort of inside joke. If so, it is brilliant.
If not, it is just another case of the bureaucratic ignorance of a corporation: "Well, middle aged folks love the Rolling Stones, therefore they are inoffensive and recognizable and should be used in our commercial."
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
This Post Is Not My Own Original Work
But please, people, I beg you to read and take to heart Bob's Quick Guide to the Apostrophe, You Idiots.
It is simply astonishing to me the sheer number of misused apostrophes I encounter every day. It is not that hard.
It is simply astonishing to me the sheer number of misused apostrophes I encounter every day. It is not that hard.
Useless Mechanical Pencil Followup
On my first attempt to use the mechanical pencil I described yesterday (scroll down past the CNN criticism for the original post), the lead was pushed completely into the body of the pencil, rendering it 100% useless. Fuck you, pencil.
CNN Is Officially Dead To Me
It has been a steady decline since Ted Turner left. It went from being the news network equivalent of the Times to a slightly populist but really just a little more blue state-ish FoxNews.
First, there was this. In other words, as long ago as two years ago cnn.com was reporting unsubstantiated bullshit as 'science,' by merely putting the word "Scientists: _______" in front of whatever asinine headline one of their PAs came up with the night before. My particular favorite was "Scientists: What came first, chicken or the egg? Egg." I shit you not. That is 100% true. As Theo pointed out, actually, the right answer is "Dinosaurs," but that is entirely beside the point. The point is that CNN producers, reporters, whoever, have absolutely no grip of science whatsoever, and post the most insane incorrect meaningless bullshit all the time. It is really just pathetic.
However, two things have happened in the past two days that have really sealed the deal on CNN's major suckage. Many moons ago, CNN.com, basking in the glory of broadband and mpeg video compression, decided that about half of its online headlines should be from the CNN.com video department. Suffice it to say, not one of these stories, ever, ever, is remotely news worthy. Today, April 22, 2008, the video headlines include "Man Stuck In Elevator for 41 Hours," [this happened several years ago, but thanks to a NYMag.com article posting the recently digitized elevator security cam footage, popularized by such crowdsourced sites as Digg.com and reddit.com, MSM CNN has decided to play "Hey guys, me too!" and try to get a few thousand CPIs out of this. On reddit, it is fine. For CNN to post it is beyond the most godawful conception of lowbrow pandering], "Citizen Tickets Cop for $540 Violation," and "Synchronized Swimmers Faint in Unison." I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. Oh, and, in case you are wondering, for posterity's sake, let it be noted that today is the date of the hotly contested Pennsylvania Democratic Primary. Good work, CNN.
This is nothing new. CNN.com video has always been utter crap. What is new, however, is now you can buy t-shirts with the cnn.com video headlines on the t-shirts. Thanks. Great. Awesome. Amazing. I just know that Hearst is rolling in his grave screaming "T-SHIRTS! DAMNIT, I KNEW I SHOULD NOT HAVE DESTROYED THE HEMP INDUSTRY! I COULD HAVE BEEN MARGINALLY RICHER!" Amazingly, these shirts really capitalize on some internet memes, and some are humorous, but, for the most part, completely inappropriate. For example. Yes. It is true. ABC did fuck up that debate beyond all measure. But what is worse, fucking up the debate, or putting it on a motherfucking t-shirt? This is not news. This is second grade bullshit.
Finally, CNN just hired Tony Snow.
That's it.
Done.
CNN, you are dead to me.
Maybe if you start hiring people with degrees in something other than english or communications, say, perhaps, masters in economics, or law degrees, or degrees in mathematics, medical degrees, etc., you will become a news network again, and not mere infotainment. I don't give a crap if the person on screen is ugly as sin, I'd rather they know what they are talking about than be chosen for their looks and lack of regional accent.
God I hate you CNN.
First, there was this. In other words, as long ago as two years ago cnn.com was reporting unsubstantiated bullshit as 'science,' by merely putting the word "Scientists: _______" in front of whatever asinine headline one of their PAs came up with the night before. My particular favorite was "Scientists: What came first, chicken or the egg? Egg." I shit you not. That is 100% true. As Theo pointed out, actually, the right answer is "Dinosaurs," but that is entirely beside the point. The point is that CNN producers, reporters, whoever, have absolutely no grip of science whatsoever, and post the most insane incorrect meaningless bullshit all the time. It is really just pathetic.
However, two things have happened in the past two days that have really sealed the deal on CNN's major suckage. Many moons ago, CNN.com, basking in the glory of broadband and mpeg video compression, decided that about half of its online headlines should be from the CNN.com video department. Suffice it to say, not one of these stories, ever, ever, is remotely news worthy. Today, April 22, 2008, the video headlines include "Man Stuck In Elevator for 41 Hours," [this happened several years ago, but thanks to a NYMag.com article posting the recently digitized elevator security cam footage, popularized by such crowdsourced sites as Digg.com and reddit.com, MSM CNN has decided to play "Hey guys, me too!" and try to get a few thousand CPIs out of this. On reddit, it is fine. For CNN to post it is beyond the most godawful conception of lowbrow pandering], "Citizen Tickets Cop for $540 Violation," and "Synchronized Swimmers Faint in Unison." I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. Oh, and, in case you are wondering, for posterity's sake, let it be noted that today is the date of the hotly contested Pennsylvania Democratic Primary. Good work, CNN.
This is nothing new. CNN.com video has always been utter crap. What is new, however, is now you can buy t-shirts with the cnn.com video headlines on the t-shirts. Thanks. Great. Awesome. Amazing. I just know that Hearst is rolling in his grave screaming "T-SHIRTS! DAMNIT, I KNEW I SHOULD NOT HAVE DESTROYED THE HEMP INDUSTRY! I COULD HAVE BEEN MARGINALLY RICHER!" Amazingly, these shirts really capitalize on some internet memes, and some are humorous, but, for the most part, completely inappropriate. For example. Yes. It is true. ABC did fuck up that debate beyond all measure. But what is worse, fucking up the debate, or putting it on a motherfucking t-shirt? This is not news. This is second grade bullshit.
Finally, CNN just hired Tony Snow.
That's it.
Done.
CNN, you are dead to me.
Maybe if you start hiring people with degrees in something other than english or communications, say, perhaps, masters in economics, or law degrees, or degrees in mathematics, medical degrees, etc., you will become a news network again, and not mere infotainment. I don't give a crap if the person on screen is ugly as sin, I'd rather they know what they are talking about than be chosen for their looks and lack of regional accent.
God I hate you CNN.
I Own A Very Odd Mechanical Pencil
In retrospect, purchasing it was sincere folly. Most importantly, it has absolutely no ability to advance the lead, meaning, at most, I have, say, two or three good paragraphs with this thing until it is no more than an elaborate metal-nib-delivery-device which can serve no other purpose besides rending paper asunder and being used to inflict small but painful stabs. Let me be explicit: it is not as though when you press the little button, the lead fails to move forward, or it is inefficient, or only moves it forward a little; there is no mechanism of any sort, whatsoever, to put in more pencil lead, or to advance the lead currently in there.
The eraser sucks too.
The eraser sucks too.
Monday, April 21, 2008
What in the hell is a "Billing Charge"?
I have just received my electricity bill, and I am quite perplexed. For some reason, a full 20% of the bill consists of a "billing charge." As far as I can tell, this is the money you must pay the power company in order for them to accept the money you already owe them.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Newsflash: I have been overcharged at a bar.
Dear reader, there has been many a time when I have checked my banking statement at been aghast at my own bartab. However, today, I was certain, certain that I had been Shanghai'd.
Last night some friends and I went to a very chi-chi frou-frou bar, which was quite lovely, amazing women, lovely decor, mean martinis... mean martinis...
However. Martinis were $12. I had one. One. One. Then I cashed out, and bought two Heines in cash.
I remember thinking that $3 would be too much of a tip, because that would be 25%, so I gave $2.50. My lovely and extremely aggressive reporter friend scoffed that I would tip so much for "such ghastly service I mean come on she took ten minutes to get your drink and did you SEE how much salt was in my margarita? Ugh I want to taste the tequila not go for a swim in the Dead Sea. Passover is tomorrow, I'll drink saltwater then."
Today I log onto my banking website:
$100.
Clearly, the bartendress (read: wench) was quite upset I did not get a table and spend $350 on bottle service, so she decided to meet me half way.
Unfortunately for her, the gracious folks at my bank have cancelled the entire fee, so I got one free martini.
Bar: 0
RG: One free martini.
Booya.
Last night some friends and I went to a very chi-chi frou-frou bar, which was quite lovely, amazing women, lovely decor, mean martinis... mean martinis...
However. Martinis were $12. I had one. One. One. Then I cashed out, and bought two Heines in cash.
I remember thinking that $3 would be too much of a tip, because that would be 25%, so I gave $2.50. My lovely and extremely aggressive reporter friend scoffed that I would tip so much for "such ghastly service I mean come on she took ten minutes to get your drink and did you SEE how much salt was in my margarita? Ugh I want to taste the tequila not go for a swim in the Dead Sea. Passover is tomorrow, I'll drink saltwater then."
Today I log onto my banking website:
$100.
Clearly, the bartendress (read: wench) was quite upset I did not get a table and spend $350 on bottle service, so she decided to meet me half way.
Unfortunately for her, the gracious folks at my bank have cancelled the entire fee, so I got one free martini.
Bar: 0
RG: One free martini.
Booya.
Beware of Animal Behaviors that Might Outwardly Seem 'Cute'
Consider the cuttlefish. There is at least one species that has a very affectionate looking mating ritual. A courting male will approach the female and tenderly caress her forehead with one of his arms. It is almost a touching scene: an act of platonic physical affection. It is a deviation from the cold and heartless world of nature. Even these animals, invertibrates, can be kind and loving. Why can we not learn a lesson from these loving beasts!?
But wait, not so fast.
We must not forget that the male delivers his sperm through a groove in one of his arms. So there is a one in six chance that he is in fact rubbing his genitals all over her face. Also, since it is suspected that cuttlefish have chemoreceptors all over their bodies. So she may be able to smell/taste the whole thing.
Not so cute now, is it? In fact it is kind of gross. But that is the way of nature. Gross.
But wait, not so fast.
We must not forget that the male delivers his sperm through a groove in one of his arms. So there is a one in six chance that he is in fact rubbing his genitals all over her face. Also, since it is suspected that cuttlefish have chemoreceptors all over their bodies. So she may be able to smell/taste the whole thing.
Not so cute now, is it? In fact it is kind of gross. But that is the way of nature. Gross.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Much to My Amusement
I was in the men's room recently, and I noticed something quite amusing. For safety purposes there is a fire sprinkler above each stall. When I realized this I laughed out loud, because it immediately poses the question, "What would you do?""So. That just happened. And it is continuing to happen. I've weighed my options, and, frankly, I don't like any of them."
It Is Time to Play My Favorite Game
It is entitled "How many beers can I drink in five minutes? And can I beat it in the next five minutes?"My personal best is "After thirty minutes, I am not dead."
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Gross and Unacceptable Inefficiency
I attend graduate school. It is a high stress environment. Very, very high stress. Now, there are a few exceptions to this general rule, but, by and large, students have little positive to say about the food services at their schools. Fair enough. Ours is decent. Not terrible, not amazing, but passable. However, there is one thing in particular which is simply unacceptable:
About once a week, the vending machines and cafeteria, from the bottom to the top floor of the building, run out of Diet Coke.
This alone is a sign of gross incompetence. If they run out on Wednesday, and don't get any more till next week, well, you do the math. Oh, and, people are in the library all day during the weekend too.
However, what is truly maddening is the presence of unimaginable amounts of Caffeine Free Diet Coke in the vending machines. Yes. Entire cases of the stuff.
The number one drink of students at this school, and all like it, is Coffee*. Number two is Diet Coke.
*Non-alcoholic drink.
Diet Caffeine Free Coke falls somewhere between Diet Shasta Orange and Irn Bru in the list of popularity.
The real nail in the coffin, however, the final straw, is that while rooting around in a back hallway on the mezzanine level of the cafeteria, I discovered a dozen palettes of Diet Coke, both bottles and cans. Are you freaking kidding me? What the hell is going on here? Can no one move these forty feet to the vending refrigerators one floor downstairs and pour out that caffeine free crap once and for all?
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Maximal Laundry Efficiency
I have just done my laundry. A truly arduous ordeal. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get blood out of my green velvet doublet? Or the matching purple silk lederhosen? Let's just say that was one manhunt where a certain someone's costumery stole the show.
Needless to say, in my constant quest for efficiency, I have struggled to maximize the time between consecutive laundry days, while still retaining a modicum of hygiene and a large helping of style.
Here are several techniques:
1. You can never have too many socks.
2. This goes doubly true for boxers.
3. Sweaters do not get dirty the first time you wear them.
4. Neither do jeans.
5. Spillage does not mean your clothes are dirty either, as there are several factors to consider: what is the liquid in question? viscosity? will it stain? if so, how long till the stain sets? if not, do you care? will it smell? will it cause fabric to stiffen?
6. Know where your roommates sock drawers are.
7. Learn the fine art of 'throwing-in'; as in, "Hey [roommate], I see you are doing laundry. Mind if I throw in a pair of socks?"
8. Be a clothes horse. I am one. Having a tremendous amount of clothing not only makes it easy to be stylish, it minimizes time spent in the laundry room.
9. Be scented. Men, it is called 'cologne' and 'deodorant,' and judicious use of both not only enhances your attractiveness, but can mask the fact your jeans are soaked in a fine curry.
And finally, the coup de grace, the ultimate test of maximal efficiency:
10. If, on laundry day, you are not forced to take off the very clothing you are wearing and wash it as well, requiring you to do your laundry (semi) nude, you are not doing it right.
Excuse me. I have to go put a few things in the dryer / terrify some coeds.
My New Potato Chips
"Yo man, my chips are delicious."
"What flavor are they?"
"Motherfuckin' Jalapeno & Shit."
Monday, April 14, 2008
Dr. Von Hohenheim
Readers, good news.
Dr. Von Hohenheim was just accepted to grad school for a Ph.D. Program. Know the old joke? B.S. M.S. Ph.D.? Bullshit, moreshit, piled higher and deeper? They were talking about Theo.
The joke is on us, however, readers, as Theo is getting a Ph.D. in philosophy. In other words, he has officially 'opted out.' He has sent in his "Fuck This Shit" paperwork, and it has been noted and approved by the relevant authorities. He will never have to hold a normal job again, ever, not that he has, but, worst of all, the son of a bitch will be able to answer the question "What do you do for a living?" with "I am a philosopher."
Philosopher indeed, Dr. Von Hohenheim. How we started out in the same place and I end up a jurist and you a philosopher is not really within my conceptual grasp. But it makes sense.
Dr. Von Hohenheim was just accepted to grad school for a Ph.D. Program. Know the old joke? B.S. M.S. Ph.D.? Bullshit, moreshit, piled higher and deeper? They were talking about Theo.
The joke is on us, however, readers, as Theo is getting a Ph.D. in philosophy. In other words, he has officially 'opted out.' He has sent in his "Fuck This Shit" paperwork, and it has been noted and approved by the relevant authorities. He will never have to hold a normal job again, ever, not that he has, but, worst of all, the son of a bitch will be able to answer the question "What do you do for a living?" with "I am a philosopher."
Philosopher indeed, Dr. Von Hohenheim. How we started out in the same place and I end up a jurist and you a philosopher is not really within my conceptual grasp. But it makes sense.
Pharmaceutical Commercials
Personally, I don't think pharmaceutical companies should be allowed to advertise. It is far too twisted a concept to allow companies to advertise for "Unhappiness." Sometimes people get sad about shit. You don't need a pill for it. People are like conceptual sponges, and so much airtime dedicated to the advertising of diseases results in an overmedicated hypochondriac culture. There is one commercial in particular I find hilarious, though. It is for restless leg syndrome, and most of the commercial is dedicated to the statement "This is actually a real disease." If your advertisement has to spend that much time justifying the existence of the disease you are purported to be curing, you have a problem.
Similarly, I was at the optometrist the other day, so, for wont of better reading material, I started to flip through Web M.D. magazine. Yes, such a thing exists. A magazine for a website that is essentially a series of medical product advertisements. Even aside from being a weird, third-derivative critique on what our society deems worthy of cutting down trees and putting ink all over them, the magazine itself was godawful. Here are the headlines, as nearly verbatim as I can remember:
Insomiac: Are you one?
Cholesterol: Diet and exercise not doing it?
Heart Disease: America's number one killer?
Diseases You Have Never Heard Of: Do you have any?
Seriously, all the magazine had was a list of ailments with checklists attached. By self-diagnosis, I apparently am going to die of a quadruple heart attack / simultaneous bout of west nile virus / impetigo within hours. Unless, of course, I employ the services of Web M.D. to get me in contact with a qualified physician who can prescribe me all manner of potent elyxers.
Similarly, I was at the optometrist the other day, so, for wont of better reading material, I started to flip through Web M.D. magazine. Yes, such a thing exists. A magazine for a website that is essentially a series of medical product advertisements. Even aside from being a weird, third-derivative critique on what our society deems worthy of cutting down trees and putting ink all over them, the magazine itself was godawful. Here are the headlines, as nearly verbatim as I can remember:
Insomiac: Are you one?
Cholesterol: Diet and exercise not doing it?
Heart Disease: America's number one killer?
Diseases You Have Never Heard Of: Do you have any?
Seriously, all the magazine had was a list of ailments with checklists attached. By self-diagnosis, I apparently am going to die of a quadruple heart attack / simultaneous bout of west nile virus / impetigo within hours. Unless, of course, I employ the services of Web M.D. to get me in contact with a qualified physician who can prescribe me all manner of potent elyxers.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Lessons In Social Interaction #4: How to come off like a complete jerk no matter what the subject matter.
For those who have not seen it, this is the next in my long series of lessons on social interaction. Here's #1 # 3 and number 2.
This lesson will allow you, reader, to come off as a vacuous, condescending asshole no matter what the subject matter. Let's dive right into it.
This social interaction takes place in four discrete steps.
1. The Blowjob / Dumbledore
2. The Bob Dole
3. Sock Puppet
4. Fireworks / Jazzhands
1. The Blowjob / Dumbledore: raise your closed fist to your chin, and cock your head slightly while saying something a little too slowly and high pitched, as if you are bringing genuine insight to the topic, and not merely being a bag of hot air. Which you are. When pausing to think between words, which you should do frequently, put your fist in front of your mouth. Squint slightly.
2. The Bob Dole: On a particularly important point (read: you will have to make this up, because you are saying nothing of value), raise your fist with your thumb pressed slightly up in the air. Do not shake your fist. Pretend that you are shaking hands with a tiny floating politician. Or applying mascara to tinkerbell. Whatever works for you.
3. The Sock Puppet: After successfully completing the Bob dole, hold your hand up in the air, between yourself and your debate opponent, with your fingers poised as if you were holding a straw by your fingertips, horizontal to the ground. For those of you familiar with kung fu, and if any of my readers are not, I will be sorely disappointed, the posture is extremely similar to the crane. Turn your hand sideways though.
You make shake this for emphasis.
4. Fireworks / Jazzhands: Splay the fingers on your sock puppet out dramatically, for what should be the killing blow in your rhetorical onslaught.
Congratulations, sir. You have come off like an asshole.
This lesson will allow you, reader, to come off as a vacuous, condescending asshole no matter what the subject matter. Let's dive right into it.
This social interaction takes place in four discrete steps.
1. The Blowjob / Dumbledore
2. The Bob Dole
3. Sock Puppet
4. Fireworks / Jazzhands
1. The Blowjob / Dumbledore: raise your closed fist to your chin, and cock your head slightly while saying something a little too slowly and high pitched, as if you are bringing genuine insight to the topic, and not merely being a bag of hot air. Which you are. When pausing to think between words, which you should do frequently, put your fist in front of your mouth. Squint slightly.
2. The Bob Dole: On a particularly important point (read: you will have to make this up, because you are saying nothing of value), raise your fist with your thumb pressed slightly up in the air. Do not shake your fist. Pretend that you are shaking hands with a tiny floating politician. Or applying mascara to tinkerbell. Whatever works for you.
3. The Sock Puppet: After successfully completing the Bob dole, hold your hand up in the air, between yourself and your debate opponent, with your fingers poised as if you were holding a straw by your fingertips, horizontal to the ground. For those of you familiar with kung fu, and if any of my readers are not, I will be sorely disappointed, the posture is extremely similar to the crane. Turn your hand sideways though.
You make shake this for emphasis.
4. Fireworks / Jazzhands: Splay the fingers on your sock puppet out dramatically, for what should be the killing blow in your rhetorical onslaught.
Congratulations, sir. You have come off like an asshole.
Your Presence Is Inexplicable and Welcome
Dear Gyro Man Running a Sandwich Stand At 4 In the Morning In The Middle of the Financial District,
Why are you here? These streets are deserted. No one is buying gyros at this time of the night. Well, except for me. However, I am not entirely certain how I got here, only that some unintelligible garbled nonsense was spewed at me by the subway conductor before I was booted out of my seat, on the wrong island and fairly confused. So you can't really point to me and say "I am here to serve gentlemen like yourself, sir!" Because, seriously, there was no reason to expect I'd show up. That I am here is a total anomaly. Oh, I'll buy one of your sandwiches. And I'll enjoy it. And then after stumbling through the deserted alleys of the Financial District for 30 minutes, covered in white sauce and hot sauce, I will realize that there is no way I am walking home across the bridge, and, after all that hemming and hawing, will hop a cab anyway.
Why are you here, oh sandwich man? Why are you here?
Why are you here? These streets are deserted. No one is buying gyros at this time of the night. Well, except for me. However, I am not entirely certain how I got here, only that some unintelligible garbled nonsense was spewed at me by the subway conductor before I was booted out of my seat, on the wrong island and fairly confused. So you can't really point to me and say "I am here to serve gentlemen like yourself, sir!" Because, seriously, there was no reason to expect I'd show up. That I am here is a total anomaly. Oh, I'll buy one of your sandwiches. And I'll enjoy it. And then after stumbling through the deserted alleys of the Financial District for 30 minutes, covered in white sauce and hot sauce, I will realize that there is no way I am walking home across the bridge, and, after all that hemming and hawing, will hop a cab anyway.
Why are you here, oh sandwich man? Why are you here?
Saturday, April 12, 2008
"Honest Drinking"
I have coined a new phrase: Honest Drinking. It is the sort of drinking that Theo and I engage in on the unfortunate-for-the-rest-of-the-universe events when we get together. An explanation is forthcoming.
Honest drinking is goal oriented and unapologetic. It is when the raison d'etre is, itself, drinking. Not binge drinking, you see. That is pretty crass. Motivated by the need to be a fool. Social lubrication of sorts. Neither Theo or myself has ever needed social lubricant: we were born fascinating, and are drop dead gorgeous. The goal of Honest Drinking is to see just how far you can push the line. It usually goes a little something like this:
Theo and I are watching television, working on our first 30 rack of the night, and a particular commercial comes on: the one where a pill is advertised that prevents hangovers for "up to and including six drinks." This usually throws us both into a deep blood-fury, in protest of the concept that there is such a thing as 'six drinks' and a 'hangover' maintainable in the human mind at the same time. There isn't. If you get a hangover from six drinks, my god man, you are an evolutionary oddity, and I would think you kindly to remove yourself from the gene pool post haste.
At that point, Theo, or myself, poses the question "SO. How many you think tonight?" And then begins the Honest Drinking.
"Oh what are you guys doing tonight? Oh we are drinking."
".... Honest drinking?"
"FUCK YOU ASSHOLE! Oh... wait... yes. Yes honest drinking."
"Can I come?"
"FUCK YOU ASSHOLE! Wait.. yeah... sure. BUT BRING YOUR OWN BEER!"
In any event, the night usually ends with this line, or one very similar in spirit and quantification:
"YOU REMEMBER YOU ASKED HOW MANY?"
"WHAT? NO. FUCK YOU. WHAT? YES. YES I DO REMEMBER."
"TWENTY THREE. THE ANSWER IS TWENTY THREE."
*EYES ROLL BACK IN HEAD, PASS OUT*
Honest drinking is goal oriented and unapologetic. It is when the raison d'etre is, itself, drinking. Not binge drinking, you see. That is pretty crass. Motivated by the need to be a fool. Social lubrication of sorts. Neither Theo or myself has ever needed social lubricant: we were born fascinating, and are drop dead gorgeous. The goal of Honest Drinking is to see just how far you can push the line. It usually goes a little something like this:
Theo and I are watching television, working on our first 30 rack of the night, and a particular commercial comes on: the one where a pill is advertised that prevents hangovers for "up to and including six drinks." This usually throws us both into a deep blood-fury, in protest of the concept that there is such a thing as 'six drinks' and a 'hangover' maintainable in the human mind at the same time. There isn't. If you get a hangover from six drinks, my god man, you are an evolutionary oddity, and I would think you kindly to remove yourself from the gene pool post haste.
At that point, Theo, or myself, poses the question "SO. How many you think tonight?" And then begins the Honest Drinking.
"Oh what are you guys doing tonight? Oh we are drinking."
".... Honest drinking?"
"FUCK YOU ASSHOLE! Oh... wait... yes. Yes honest drinking."
"Can I come?"
"FUCK YOU ASSHOLE! Wait.. yeah... sure. BUT BRING YOUR OWN BEER!"
In any event, the night usually ends with this line, or one very similar in spirit and quantification:
"YOU REMEMBER YOU ASKED HOW MANY?"
"WHAT? NO. FUCK YOU. WHAT? YES. YES I DO REMEMBER."
"TWENTY THREE. THE ANSWER IS TWENTY THREE."
*EYES ROLL BACK IN HEAD, PASS OUT*
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Ad Hominen Attacks Are an Underrated Art
Everyone refers to ad hominem attacks derisively. They seem to think that this form, nay, this art, of argument 'distracts from the real issue at hand,' or something like that. But then these same moralists tell us from their ivory towers: "consider the source," and "you can't believe anything you read." They want it both ways, and they don't want you to have it either way! Dammit, I say we can all have it both ways!
Of course, if you had listened to me in the first place when I told you that these people are a bunch of softy liberal pink-o flip-floppers who purple heart was won in Vietnam because of lame superficial wounds, and whose mothers prostituted themselves out to the refer-smoking counter culture nihilists of the early jazz movement, well then you would never have bothered to listen to them in the first place and this whole discussion would be unnecessary.
I wouldn't have even had to mention the fact that they all used steroids once, and in college they were womanizing frat-boy losers who ate, drank, and slept on the beer spattered bare-wood floors of their disgusting frat house, and they know nothing about basic oral hygiene and I was behind one of them in the line at a coffee shop one time and he was a total dick to the girl behind the counter for no reason at all and thought he was the shit and so fucking cool. But he wasn't. He was a huge tool, and everyone knew it. Especially when he got in his hummer and tried to burn out on his way out of there while texting some other douche-bag on his Iphone. Prick.
And did I mention that they are all from Massachusetts?
See how much easier it is now? You never have to even bother to listening to any of these people again. I have saved you time and energy, as well as resolving the issue and making you a better debater.
Of course, if you had listened to me in the first place when I told you that these people are a bunch of softy liberal pink-o flip-floppers who purple heart was won in Vietnam because of lame superficial wounds, and whose mothers prostituted themselves out to the refer-smoking counter culture nihilists of the early jazz movement, well then you would never have bothered to listen to them in the first place and this whole discussion would be unnecessary.
I wouldn't have even had to mention the fact that they all used steroids once, and in college they were womanizing frat-boy losers who ate, drank, and slept on the beer spattered bare-wood floors of their disgusting frat house, and they know nothing about basic oral hygiene and I was behind one of them in the line at a coffee shop one time and he was a total dick to the girl behind the counter for no reason at all and thought he was the shit and so fucking cool. But he wasn't. He was a huge tool, and everyone knew it. Especially when he got in his hummer and tried to burn out on his way out of there while texting some other douche-bag on his Iphone. Prick.
And did I mention that they are all from Massachusetts?
See how much easier it is now? You never have to even bother to listening to any of these people again. I have saved you time and energy, as well as resolving the issue and making you a better debater.
If You Do Not Believe In Recycling, You Do Not Know How to Add
A roommate of mine the other day was arguing that recycling is clearly less efficient than simply gathering more materials.
False.
I'll spare the lecture on thermodynamics, conservation of energy, and transactional energy loss, and get right to the brass tax.
To create an aluminum can you need a few things:
1. Aluminum.
2. Can making factory.
3. Transportation.
To get 1, however, requires mining, transportation of ore, storage of ore, smelting of ore, transportation of aluminum, and storage of aluminum. All these are extremely energy intensive (read: uses lots of diesel fuel really, really inefficiently) processes, with a tremendous amount of environmental impact. So. To create an aluminum can, add all those steps on before 1. above, and you have the process to go from ore to can. However. Recycling cuts out all of these steps, most importantly, the energy costs (read: dumping hydrocarbons into the atmosphere) and environmental impact (read: strip mining).
So, basically, if you cannot realize that the energy required to make a can from scratch is a many times the amount of the energy required to take an existing aluminum can, melt it, and recast it, you do not know how to add.
Well, maybe, actually, you don't understand fractions.
False.
I'll spare the lecture on thermodynamics, conservation of energy, and transactional energy loss, and get right to the brass tax.
To create an aluminum can you need a few things:
1. Aluminum.
2. Can making factory.
3. Transportation.
To get 1, however, requires mining, transportation of ore, storage of ore, smelting of ore, transportation of aluminum, and storage of aluminum. All these are extremely energy intensive (read: uses lots of diesel fuel really, really inefficiently) processes, with a tremendous amount of environmental impact. So. To create an aluminum can, add all those steps on before 1. above, and you have the process to go from ore to can. However. Recycling cuts out all of these steps, most importantly, the energy costs (read: dumping hydrocarbons into the atmosphere) and environmental impact (read: strip mining).
So, basically, if you cannot realize that the energy required to make a can from scratch is a many times the amount of the energy required to take an existing aluminum can, melt it, and recast it, you do not know how to add.
Well, maybe, actually, you don't understand fractions.
You'd Open It Too / How I Spread Conjunctivitis
1. Buy a ziploc bag
2. Label ziploc bag 'Fart'
3. Fart into ziplog bag
4. Seal. Tightly.
5. Write note: "In this ziploc bag is a fart. You are now warned. However, despite the fact you know it is a fart, you will still open it, and smell it, and I will have accomplished the amazing feat of farting in your face from a distance of several hundred miles, in defiance of your own agency. Cf. Angry Flower, Bob The, 'The Time Looker-Forward Tube'."
6. Pack ziploc and note, in styrofoam peanuts, in a cardboard box.
7. Mail to Theo.
8. Enjoy.
Unfortunately, the only problem was that it was a cohabitant of Theo's house, and not Theo himself, who received my package of delight (for me) and doom (for the recipient).
Hopefully, the infection will spread.
2. Label ziploc bag 'Fart'
3. Fart into ziplog bag
4. Seal. Tightly.
5. Write note: "In this ziploc bag is a fart. You are now warned. However, despite the fact you know it is a fart, you will still open it, and smell it, and I will have accomplished the amazing feat of farting in your face from a distance of several hundred miles, in defiance of your own agency. Cf. Angry Flower, Bob The, 'The Time Looker-Forward Tube'."
6. Pack ziploc and note, in styrofoam peanuts, in a cardboard box.
7. Mail to Theo.
8. Enjoy.
Unfortunately, the only problem was that it was a cohabitant of Theo's house, and not Theo himself, who received my package of delight (for me) and doom (for the recipient).
Hopefully, the infection will spread.
I Have Successfully Infected One of the Members of Theo's House With Conjunctivitis
How?
Read the next post.
Read the next post.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
One of the Residents of My House has Contracted Conjunctivitis
Now I am suspicious of every surface around me.
I need more bleach.
I need more bleach.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Like Functions Should Have Like Controls
My car has two identical buttons right next to each other. The only difference between them, in the dark, is that one is above the other. This, of course, is not a defining difference; there is still no actual way to tell which is which unless you are entirely certain beforehand.
One of these buttons turns on the rear window defroster and the other turns on the hazard flashers. These two functions have absolutely nothing to do with one another. Why are they set apart, on the side, with completely indistinguishable controls? Usually, things are grouped together by function. One toggle on the steering wheel stem in my car controls lights: headlights, high beams, turn signals. All together. Another similar toggle on the other side controls the wipers and wiper fluid. The radio has a set of controls that all look and function similarly, and are helpfully grouped together. Same with the air vents and heating/air conditioning.
Somehow, though, these two controls missed this rational organization. And now, I never know if I am going to clear up my window or inform all drivers around me that I am a road hazard to be avoided at all cost.
Now that I think about it, I guess this is appropriate.
One of these buttons turns on the rear window defroster and the other turns on the hazard flashers. These two functions have absolutely nothing to do with one another. Why are they set apart, on the side, with completely indistinguishable controls? Usually, things are grouped together by function. One toggle on the steering wheel stem in my car controls lights: headlights, high beams, turn signals. All together. Another similar toggle on the other side controls the wipers and wiper fluid. The radio has a set of controls that all look and function similarly, and are helpfully grouped together. Same with the air vents and heating/air conditioning.
Somehow, though, these two controls missed this rational organization. And now, I never know if I am going to clear up my window or inform all drivers around me that I am a road hazard to be avoided at all cost.
Now that I think about it, I guess this is appropriate.
Bow Before Your New Masters
People have known for some time that some kind of enormous unstoppable corporation would eventually come to own all of humanity. Whenever people, science fiction writers, conspiracy theorists, and the like, mused on the topic, they always came up with very sinister sounding names, along the following lines:
The Illuminati
OmniCorp
VirtueCon
The Catholic Church
The New York Yankees
The Telephone Company
The Legion of Doom
You know, the kind of name that sends shivers down your spine with its mere utterance. So you know it is evil.
But, sadly, the time has come where this very spectre has established itself and come to power. And the name of this juggernaut, this New World Order, is:
. . . wait for it . . .
Google.
I don't know what to make of this really. I guess I have nothing else to do but be mildly amused by this fact. That is, until my mandatory servitude begins.
The Illuminati
OmniCorp
VirtueCon
The Catholic Church
The New York Yankees
The Telephone Company
The Legion of Doom
You know, the kind of name that sends shivers down your spine with its mere utterance. So you know it is evil.
But, sadly, the time has come where this very spectre has established itself and come to power. And the name of this juggernaut, this New World Order, is:
. . . wait for it . . .
Google.
I don't know what to make of this really. I guess I have nothing else to do but be mildly amused by this fact. That is, until my mandatory servitude begins.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Liquidity Crisis on the Tabletop
This post is not particularly funny, but I had a very interesting experience last night, and I thought I should share it.
Last night, my roommates and I were playing monopoly, and we managed to push the game into a fullblown liquidity crisis.
First, the game started off pretty normally. However, a few windfalls on free-parking infused a tremendous amount of capital into the economy, which resulted in a housing boom. Then, some wheeling and dealing meant that, suprisingly quickly, there were a tremendous amount of properties on the board. The catch, however, is that this new landed gentry had to put themselves into the poorhouse to build these houses: anytime someone landed on a property and had to pay rent, they inevitably wound up having to sell off some houses to get cash. This, in and of itself, is a pretty interesting analogy to what has been happening recently. Everyone was very highly asset rich, but extremely cash poor, and everyone was betting on another windfall to sustain them through another go around on the board, but, statistically, not only was it improbable, but even one more windfall would just delay the situation. The problem was that all the working capital was tied up, and the economy was not growing. I.e., no one makes money by just giving it back and forth player to player. Money only comes into the game's economy through Chance, Free Parking, and going around Go. For our purposes, let us call those 'economic growth.'
What made the game really interesting is when someone instituted a rule (new rule on a hard 12) that if you owned any houses, you did not get any money when you went around go. The game changed pretty dramatically then. Within a few turns, many properties had been mortgaged, and if you counted only debts outstanding and actual cash held in players hands, there was a net debt. There was more debt on the board than money! This resulted in, eventually, players with massive real estate empires (myself included) having to liquidate all their holdings and mortgage all their properties due to a single bad roll.
By the way, I think that is a really great rule to try sometime. It makes the game way more interesting, and it really can give you a good idea of what exactly a liquidity crisis is: lots of value on paper, but no cash, and lots of outstanding debt. Oh, and the fact that, as law students, we were granting each other temporary rent abatements and all sorts of bizarre property rights, lets call them, oh, say, derivatives, really only exacerbated things. I went from owning all the greens and blues with tons of houses to being eliminated within a matter of a few turns.
Of course, directly afterward, I blamed Ben Bernanke and demanded compensation from my roommates.
None was forthcoming.
Last night, my roommates and I were playing monopoly, and we managed to push the game into a fullblown liquidity crisis.
First, the game started off pretty normally. However, a few windfalls on free-parking infused a tremendous amount of capital into the economy, which resulted in a housing boom. Then, some wheeling and dealing meant that, suprisingly quickly, there were a tremendous amount of properties on the board. The catch, however, is that this new landed gentry had to put themselves into the poorhouse to build these houses: anytime someone landed on a property and had to pay rent, they inevitably wound up having to sell off some houses to get cash. This, in and of itself, is a pretty interesting analogy to what has been happening recently. Everyone was very highly asset rich, but extremely cash poor, and everyone was betting on another windfall to sustain them through another go around on the board, but, statistically, not only was it improbable, but even one more windfall would just delay the situation. The problem was that all the working capital was tied up, and the economy was not growing. I.e., no one makes money by just giving it back and forth player to player. Money only comes into the game's economy through Chance, Free Parking, and going around Go. For our purposes, let us call those 'economic growth.'
What made the game really interesting is when someone instituted a rule (new rule on a hard 12) that if you owned any houses, you did not get any money when you went around go. The game changed pretty dramatically then. Within a few turns, many properties had been mortgaged, and if you counted only debts outstanding and actual cash held in players hands, there was a net debt. There was more debt on the board than money! This resulted in, eventually, players with massive real estate empires (myself included) having to liquidate all their holdings and mortgage all their properties due to a single bad roll.
By the way, I think that is a really great rule to try sometime. It makes the game way more interesting, and it really can give you a good idea of what exactly a liquidity crisis is: lots of value on paper, but no cash, and lots of outstanding debt. Oh, and the fact that, as law students, we were granting each other temporary rent abatements and all sorts of bizarre property rights, lets call them, oh, say, derivatives, really only exacerbated things. I went from owning all the greens and blues with tons of houses to being eliminated within a matter of a few turns.
Of course, directly afterward, I blamed Ben Bernanke and demanded compensation from my roommates.
None was forthcoming.
Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid
The following is a conversation that mostly didn't take place recently between me and one Johnnytalk, and which has been lengthened and made to be less accurate for the sake of you, the reader:
TVH (incredulous): Prions!? I must admit, I am not that worried about prions. What, like 10 people have ever gotten Mad Cow?
JT: Well, there is a theory that some forms of Alzheimer's are really caused by the same thing.
TVH: Huh
JT: And like 10% of cattle in the food supply are ever tested.
Plus, they can lie latent in your system for years before any symptoms show.
TVH (helpfully interjecting): word.
JT: When symptoms do show, you have a year to live, and that year is pretty hellish.
There's no test for their presence in your system before you show symptoms. And their is a good chance of misdiagnosis because no one is looking for it.
Oh ya, and there is no cure or really any worthwhile treatment.
(Theo looks pensive and quivers a little bit)
TVH: Shit, I am worried about prions now.
JT: Oh, don't be worried. There's no sense in that. They are probably working their way to your brain right now. Might as well accept it.
TVH (incredulous): Prions!? I must admit, I am not that worried about prions. What, like 10 people have ever gotten Mad Cow?
JT: Well, there is a theory that some forms of Alzheimer's are really caused by the same thing.
TVH: Huh
JT: And like 10% of cattle in the food supply are ever tested.
Plus, they can lie latent in your system for years before any symptoms show.
TVH (helpfully interjecting): word.
JT: When symptoms do show, you have a year to live, and that year is pretty hellish.
There's no test for their presence in your system before you show symptoms. And their is a good chance of misdiagnosis because no one is looking for it.
Oh ya, and there is no cure or really any worthwhile treatment.
(Theo looks pensive and quivers a little bit)
TVH: Shit, I am worried about prions now.
JT: Oh, don't be worried. There's no sense in that. They are probably working their way to your brain right now. Might as well accept it.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Theo Von's Vitalamine Health Elixir
In the early 1920s I introduced a health drink that I had concocted to take advantage of the newly developed science of nutrition and vitalamines. The recipe may seem a bit crude by modern standards, but at the time it was truly revolutionary. Since my patent has expired, and modern science has advanced as it has, I now see fit to share with you the secrets of this wondrous victual.
Each ingredient was included to provide one particular vitamin or mineral, or for flavor/body purposes:
Banana: potassium
Eggs: protein, Vitamin B2
Cod Liver Oil: Vitamin A
Lemon/Lime/Grapefruit or whatever could be found: Vitamin C, and in hopes that the recipe would be deemed suitable by Her Majesty's Royal Navy (it was not)
Sassafras Root: Thought to minimize the Chaloric Humour (since discredited), flavor
1 Salamander tail: Improves vigour and stirs the internal passions, appeasement of the Pagan Gods
Aloe Vera: Soothing to linings of stomach and intestines
1 Baked Potato: Improved body
3 Drabs Sacramental Wine: To make concoction less evil (balanced to salamander)
Coriander and Mustard: More palatable nose
All of these ingredients were then mashed together in a large earthenware pot. At the time, fermentation was the only fully understood form of food 'processing.' So, I would throw in my proprietary yeast and/or bacteria colony (I must confess I don't really know what it was), and bury the pot until the next new moon.
As to the taste, I cannot fairly say, as I viewed this concoction with all of the pride of one's first child and so must admit my bias (note: the drink was usually less offensive than my actual first child). And did it work? Well, I am still alive, and I was apparently an entrepreneur as early as 1920. It seems highly unlikely that I was any younger than about 15 or so at the time, which means I must be pretty old. I credit this longevity to my drink, and well as my yogurt-heavy diet.
Sadly, despite is obvious efficacy, the drink was a commercial failure. It came at a time in between the popular coca elixers and snake-oil medicines of the turn of the century and modern super-foods. As such it was looked upon suspiciously by fans of either.
I was lucky, though, as I was able to salvage my business by selling small sections of ordinary tree roots as truffles. I will tell you more of that adventure, of course, after the statute of limitations on massive consumer fraud has passed.
Each ingredient was included to provide one particular vitamin or mineral, or for flavor/body purposes:
Banana: potassium
Eggs: protein, Vitamin B2
Cod Liver Oil: Vitamin A
Lemon/Lime/Grapefruit or whatever could be found: Vitamin C, and in hopes that the recipe would be deemed suitable by Her Majesty's Royal Navy (it was not)
Sassafras Root: Thought to minimize the Chaloric Humour (since discredited), flavor
1 Salamander tail: Improves vigour and stirs the internal passions, appeasement of the Pagan Gods
Aloe Vera: Soothing to linings of stomach and intestines
1 Baked Potato: Improved body
3 Drabs Sacramental Wine: To make concoction less evil (balanced to salamander)
Coriander and Mustard: More palatable nose
All of these ingredients were then mashed together in a large earthenware pot. At the time, fermentation was the only fully understood form of food 'processing.' So, I would throw in my proprietary yeast and/or bacteria colony (I must confess I don't really know what it was), and bury the pot until the next new moon.
As to the taste, I cannot fairly say, as I viewed this concoction with all of the pride of one's first child and so must admit my bias (note: the drink was usually less offensive than my actual first child). And did it work? Well, I am still alive, and I was apparently an entrepreneur as early as 1920. It seems highly unlikely that I was any younger than about 15 or so at the time, which means I must be pretty old. I credit this longevity to my drink, and well as my yogurt-heavy diet.
Sadly, despite is obvious efficacy, the drink was a commercial failure. It came at a time in between the popular coca elixers and snake-oil medicines of the turn of the century and modern super-foods. As such it was looked upon suspiciously by fans of either.
I was lucky, though, as I was able to salvage my business by selling small sections of ordinary tree roots as truffles. I will tell you more of that adventure, of course, after the statute of limitations on massive consumer fraud has passed.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
An Open Letter to One Richard Butts, Store Manager of the Local Branch of an Unnamed Major Retail Chain;
I see that you have decided to use the nickname 'Rick.'
I think this was the right decision.
I think this was the right decision.
Friday, April 4, 2008
I Should Be a Consultant Part One: The Matress Biz
On a recent road trip, I saw no less than two mattress stores that had made the decision to remain open despite the constant rain and generally inclement weather. Upon seeing the first, it took me all of a few seconds to find a major flaw in their business plan. See, people are probably not going to be very likely to buy a mattress in the rain, because they have to strap them to the tops of their cars. Basically, they are spending all of the costs of staying open - staff, electrical costs, and such - on the infinitesimal chance that maybe someone owns a van or semi truck or something.
I figure closing on rainy days could save tens of thousands of dollars a year. These people have literally spent their lives in the mattress business, and it took me a few seconds to come up with a better business model. Really, I should be getting a couple grand for this. They would still save load of money. But I won't. And they will continue to waste.
Hopefully, this will be an ongoing series, as this kind of thing happens to me often.
I figure closing on rainy days could save tens of thousands of dollars a year. These people have literally spent their lives in the mattress business, and it took me a few seconds to come up with a better business model. Really, I should be getting a couple grand for this. They would still save load of money. But I won't. And they will continue to waste.
Hopefully, this will be an ongoing series, as this kind of thing happens to me often.
A Response
As you might naturally assume, I retain in my employ a phalanx of lawyers that spend 20 hours everyday scanniong the internet for references to me, my intellect, my fasion sense, my earning power, and most of all, my penis. Thankfully, these lawyers came across a recent post by one Mr. Reality Grip (heretofore referred to as 'the accused') - lord knows I don't read his crap myself.
In rebutall to the accused, I simply offer a group whose personal and professional experience leads them to disagree:
In rebutall to the accused, I simply offer a group whose personal and professional experience leads them to disagree:
The Furyturd
There is a phenomenon that, like many others, may in fact be gender specific, in this case, to males. The hateshit. The furyturd. When something makes you so angry you have to go and take a shit about it.
"Dude, did you see that last strike out by Pedro? Take that, Yankeesfan."
*Yankees fan grimaces. Starts several sentences. Raises finger in the air and starts another sentence. Brings hand down. Gesticulates and stutters frantically.*
"Righ. Fucking... fuck it."
*Yankees fan storms out of room*
"I AM GOING TO HATESHIT IN YOUR BATHROOM, YOU ASSHOLE!"
"Oh jesus... someone go get the industrial strength pinesol..."
The furyturd.
"Dude, did you see that last strike out by Pedro? Take that, Yankeesfan."
*Yankees fan grimaces. Starts several sentences. Raises finger in the air and starts another sentence. Brings hand down. Gesticulates and stutters frantically.*
"Righ. Fucking... fuck it."
*Yankees fan storms out of room*
"I AM GOING TO HATESHIT IN YOUR BATHROOM, YOU ASSHOLE!"
"Oh jesus... someone go get the industrial strength pinesol..."
The furyturd.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Toward an Heuristic Cel Phone Hermeneutic, Pt. II
We are all familiar with text messaging. "T-9." Well, most of us. My mother, for instance, has never used a cel phone. My dad uses a cel phone, but he doesn't understand how the textpad works, so the entries for all his contacts are random numbers and letters. Recently, while I was in the car with him, his celphone rang.
*Ring Ring*
"Can you check that? Who is it?"
"Uhh.. its.. akwhoo...akwhaaa..."
"Oh, Akwuzzinshump. That's your brother. Pick it up."
Awesome, dad.
Well, that is not my complaint. My complaint is that T-9 refuses to remember curse words.
"Dude, i am so ducking bored. Lets go kick some asp."
At least 'shit' comes out as 'shiv.' It isn't really on point, but it is still pretty badass.
*Ring Ring*
"Can you check that? Who is it?"
"Uhh.. its.. akwhoo...akwhaaa..."
"Oh, Akwuzzinshump. That's your brother. Pick it up."
Awesome, dad.
Well, that is not my complaint. My complaint is that T-9 refuses to remember curse words.
"Dude, i am so ducking bored. Lets go kick some asp."
At least 'shit' comes out as 'shiv.' It isn't really on point, but it is still pretty badass.
Rent is Bullshit
There are many transactions that I am fully happy spending money on. Purchase of goods and services, for example. When I buy beer, I am buying a product that someone has infused with their utils, and, when I consume it, it will bring me joy. The fact that the product costs more than the sum of its parts is to compensate for the skilled labor and util infusing of the beer manufacturer, for which I am more than happy to say, "here, have money."
Rent is not like this. Rent is simply saying "Hey man, I own that shit you are living in! Pay me $30 a night for the privilege!"
What? Hell no man! You didn't even build the thing! You hired someone else to, maybe, or, more likely, purchased it from somone else. You are never around, and you don't even supply my utilities! I pay a freaking gas bill, electric bill, cable, highspeed, cleaning lady, swedish masseur, and delivery chinese. You supply none of these services. If you were to, say, charge me for shit that you actually do, like, I don't know, take out my freaking garbage, I would be happy to pay you. But no. You do nothing except look for more ways to screw me out of more rent, for which you infuse no new utils into my life.
Maybe, just maybe, if you didn't shut down my bootlegging operation, my cigar smuggling ring, my underground scorpion fight semi-annual, or poisonous fern appreciation society, I would have felt obligated to cut you in for some of the proceeds. But no.
You, sir, are a jerk.
Rent is not like this. Rent is simply saying "Hey man, I own that shit you are living in! Pay me $30 a night for the privilege!"
What? Hell no man! You didn't even build the thing! You hired someone else to, maybe, or, more likely, purchased it from somone else. You are never around, and you don't even supply my utilities! I pay a freaking gas bill, electric bill, cable, highspeed, cleaning lady, swedish masseur, and delivery chinese. You supply none of these services. If you were to, say, charge me for shit that you actually do, like, I don't know, take out my freaking garbage, I would be happy to pay you. But no. You do nothing except look for more ways to screw me out of more rent, for which you infuse no new utils into my life.
Maybe, just maybe, if you didn't shut down my bootlegging operation, my cigar smuggling ring, my underground scorpion fight semi-annual, or poisonous fern appreciation society, I would have felt obligated to cut you in for some of the proceeds. But no.
You, sir, are a jerk.
The Unfortunate History of Seppuku
There was once a samurai named Musashi. He was of fabled ability, even at a young age, repeatedly besting opponents in single katana combat. He was also a poet and a gifted painter.
Once, when on a boat at a river crossing, a young guy in the boat says, "Hey, you are Musashi! I challenge you to a duel." Musashi thought about it, then said, "Hop out at that little island in the middle of the river." The kid, excited to defeat the aging Musashi, leapt out of the boat onto the small tuft of land poking above the surface of the river, and, immediately, Musashi pushed the boat off from the island.
"You lose," said Musashi.
So, then the kid, named Ichi, pulled out his celphone.
Heyyyyy Akiko... Remember that samurai I was telling you about? ... Yeah, Musashi... that's right... oh no no I'm fine I'm fine... um... well... no... not exactly.
Well.... it is kind of hard to explain. No, he isn't dead.
Look, does your sister Kyoko still have that canoe?
... It's a long story.
So, the question is, in a society where one sleeps on the floor of one's room, where do you go when your wife kicks you out? There are no couches, so you have to rule that out. And it can't really get much lower than getting kicked off of sleeping on your own floor.
This is why they invented Seppuku.
"Hey Akira? Yeah... yeah it's me. The old lady kicked me off the floor. ... Yep. So you'll bring your own sword? Great see you in twenty."
Typically, you would don a white robe, kneel, meditate, write a short poem, then gut yourself with a dagger, while your best friend stood behind you, ready to decapitate you before you made any unmanly noises or facial expressions. However, even in feudal japan, you know there were guys like me.
"I am ready Akira."
*Keichi starts to disembowl himself*
"Hey Keichi...."
*Grunts* "Yes... Akira...."
*Fart*
Once, when on a boat at a river crossing, a young guy in the boat says, "Hey, you are Musashi! I challenge you to a duel." Musashi thought about it, then said, "Hop out at that little island in the middle of the river." The kid, excited to defeat the aging Musashi, leapt out of the boat onto the small tuft of land poking above the surface of the river, and, immediately, Musashi pushed the boat off from the island.
"You lose," said Musashi.
So, then the kid, named Ichi, pulled out his celphone.
Heyyyyy Akiko... Remember that samurai I was telling you about? ... Yeah, Musashi... that's right... oh no no I'm fine I'm fine... um... well... no... not exactly.
Well.... it is kind of hard to explain. No, he isn't dead.
Look, does your sister Kyoko still have that canoe?
... It's a long story.
So, the question is, in a society where one sleeps on the floor of one's room, where do you go when your wife kicks you out? There are no couches, so you have to rule that out. And it can't really get much lower than getting kicked off of sleeping on your own floor.
This is why they invented Seppuku.
"Hey Akira? Yeah... yeah it's me. The old lady kicked me off the floor. ... Yep. So you'll bring your own sword? Great see you in twenty."
Typically, you would don a white robe, kneel, meditate, write a short poem, then gut yourself with a dagger, while your best friend stood behind you, ready to decapitate you before you made any unmanly noises or facial expressions. However, even in feudal japan, you know there were guys like me.
"I am ready Akira."
*Keichi starts to disembowl himself*
"Hey Keichi...."
*Grunts* "Yes... Akira...."
*Fart*
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Your Body Is A Vehicle
In order to limit the scope of my argument here, let me at first state precisely what I mean: I am not concerning myself with metaphysical considerations, theological, ontological, or even aesthetic. I mean it very, very simply: your body is what you move around with.
Try and disagree. You'll find you will have a hard time disagreeing. In fact, I'd go so far as to assert it is a truism. This in mind...
Why the fuck don't people know how to use the sidewalk? Why is it considered okay for two obese people to wander down the center of the sidewalk at a middling pace and it is a traffic violation for two mack trucks to move at 14 miles an hour in a series of zigzags across 8 lanes of traffic? They are both pretty goddamned impolite. The same applies for large groups of slowly moving people that in no way acknowledge those around them trying to get by. You know, people with places to go. You will often find these same groups of people doing things such as stopping to tie their shoes in the middle of stairwells, engaging in conversations right in front of heavily traveled doors, toying with their cel phone while in a turnstyle / revolving door, and standing with one elbow right over the threshold to the elevator door, preventing it from closing, totally oblivious, until the buzzer starts going off and they sheepishly go "oh, excuse me," and step into the elevator fully, invariably treading on someone's foot. Why are these people so thoroughly unconscious of the space their body inhabits? Are their minds as vacant as their bodily grace would have us believe? Are they essentially no more than grandiose reaction machines, operating on some simple set of instructions such as "I go to class now" with no intervening higher order thought, pattern recognition, or concerns for efficiency?
I suppose not. Now excuse me while I go lay tire spikes in front of the elevator doors.
Try and disagree. You'll find you will have a hard time disagreeing. In fact, I'd go so far as to assert it is a truism. This in mind...
Why the fuck don't people know how to use the sidewalk? Why is it considered okay for two obese people to wander down the center of the sidewalk at a middling pace and it is a traffic violation for two mack trucks to move at 14 miles an hour in a series of zigzags across 8 lanes of traffic? They are both pretty goddamned impolite. The same applies for large groups of slowly moving people that in no way acknowledge those around them trying to get by. You know, people with places to go. You will often find these same groups of people doing things such as stopping to tie their shoes in the middle of stairwells, engaging in conversations right in front of heavily traveled doors, toying with their cel phone while in a turnstyle / revolving door, and standing with one elbow right over the threshold to the elevator door, preventing it from closing, totally oblivious, until the buzzer starts going off and they sheepishly go "oh, excuse me," and step into the elevator fully, invariably treading on someone's foot. Why are these people so thoroughly unconscious of the space their body inhabits? Are their minds as vacant as their bodily grace would have us believe? Are they essentially no more than grandiose reaction machines, operating on some simple set of instructions such as "I go to class now" with no intervening higher order thought, pattern recognition, or concerns for efficiency?
I suppose not. Now excuse me while I go lay tire spikes in front of the elevator doors.
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